


In Loving Memory

by kellbelle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Depression, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Eventual Romance, F/M, Fade Tongue, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mages (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars, Minor Fenris/Female Hawke, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-16 08:02:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14807453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellbelle/pseuds/kellbelle
Summary: The Herald of Andraste's husband, Mahanon Lavellan, dies at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She struggles to embrace her new role as Herald, and eventually Inquisitor, while handling her grief. Eventually, she finds herself drawn to a certain apostate and the whole world changes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: this is straight up depressing and I'm a terrible, messed up person. I don't even know why I'm writing it. There will be serious depression and suicidal thoughts in this, so please be aware of that before reading. I haven't seen a lot of fics about grief and well here we are. I've had this idea swimming around in my head for a while about two potential Inquisitors being in love and happy before the Conclave and then one of them dying. If anyone has anything to critique or to suggest, please let me know. I want to get this right and I would definitely appreciate any input! 
> 
> I promise this won't all be depressing, there will be some romance and fluff and all that eventually!

“Tell me why exactly we’re here again?” Evelyn groans, fastening her staff behind her back while her husband merely rolls his eyes for the thousandth time.

“Peace, _Ara’asha_. Who are we to deny a chance to end this war?” Mahanon reminds her with a fond smile, smoothing a stray lock of his unruly, auburn hair behind his ear.

She sighs, a shiver running down her spine at the sound of Elvhen from his soft voice. Without even thinking, she reaches for his hand and squeezes. Mahanon gives her a sad look and reluctantly pushes her hand away.

“We’re in a crowd, _sa’lath_ ,” he scolds and this time Evelyn doesn’t even bother to hide her scowl.

“Let them look for all I care. You’re my husband.” His dark eyes scan across the busy temple and flick back to her as if to say, “ _I told you so_ ” when a pair of humans openly grimace at their innocent public display of affection.

“We can be alone soon,” he promises, surprising her with a quick peck to the corner of her mouth. Evelyn immediately perks up, eyes sparkling up at the man she loves. “Come, we are to meet the others.”

“ _Help_!” An ethereal voice seems to echo across the hall but none seem to notice except Evelyn. She pauses in her steps, watching her husband walk ahead of her back towards the entrance. The sight of his retreating figure sends a shiver of alarm up her spine. 

“Mal, did you not hear?” Evelyn calls for him but he is lost to the crowd. She lets out an unsteady breath, a pit of worry beginning to form in her stomach as she turns back to the hallway in search of the voice.

“Please, someone!”

Evelyn runs in the direction of the distressed voice, bursting through a pair of wide doors to look upon something she couldn’t even begin to understand. All hell breaks loose.

 

* * *

 

The ground is hard and cold beneath her cheek. A film of grogginess mars her eyesight as she tries to take in her bearings before an insistent pain in her hand flares. All at once she is in agony, twisting and turning, feet scraping against the cobbles beneath her feet, chains rattling as she tries to contain the scream that threatens to bubble through her throat.

“Who are you?!”

She cannot answer. Where is Mahanon? Her heart pounds in her chest at the mere thought. She couldn’t answer anything without her husband.

“Please, what’s going on?” Evelyn manages to squeak out between pained breaths.

“Everyone at the Conclave is dead except you! Speak, mage!”

Dead. Everyone at the Conclave is dead. Not her. No, no, _no_. Her hands are shaking.

“ _Dead_?” She registers that the word comes from her mouth but her surroundings are gone. She is alone. Alone. All alone.

“Cassandra, it’s obvious she does not know.”

“Then let us show her!”

Evelyn is numb. She does not hear the woman interrogating her, does not feel the release of the chains surrounding her limbs, does not register the sudden cold on her face as she is led outside of the dungeons. Following Cassandra comes automatically, the jeering from the crowd is ignored.

How? She had just seen him, was it not moments ago? He was moving towards the other rebel mages, she turned back for some reason. Why did she not take him with her? Her fault, her fault. No. No. No.

A shock of pain in her hand again makes her falter in her steps, suddenly jilted back into reality as Cassandra continues to tug her up to the mountain, towards the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There are demons littering the path and Evelyn does not hesitate to reach for a fallen staff and cast as best as she can. She can’t think of it. No. No. No.

Words are spoken about the dangers of her having a weapon and she argues with the woman she now realizes is a Seeker. The conversation is forgotten. Her heart is beating far too fast, her head is spinning, her hand is throbbing, she is going to break. Mahanon, _where is he_?

Evelyn casts fire and ice beneath a strange tear in the sky, a jagged circle of green that seems to spit demons. Her spells are weak at best and her concentration is shattered. An elf makes a beeline for her and she lets him grab her hand. “Quick, before more come through!”

The green scar on her hand connects with the strange rift in the sky and her eyes roll back from the pain. She sees Mahanon smiling at her, his _vhenan_ , she feels his fingers on her hand. When the pain stops it is decidedly not her husband grasping her hands and she rips the appendage away from the stranger, clutching it to her chest defensively.

“What did you do?” Evelyn demands, her voice brittle and worn. She wants to scream. She wants to break. She’s still shaking.

“I did nothing. The credit is all yours. The mark on your hand is capable of closing rifts,” the older elf speaks, his tone steady and polite. She wants to spit at him. How can he be so calm?

“The name is Varric Tethras,” a dwarf cuts in with a beaming smile and she wants to scream at him too. How dare he smile at her when she feels this? Her world is gone.

“I am Solas if there are to be introductions,” the elf adds, clasping his hands behind his back. Mahanon does that. She looks away.

“I am Evelyn,” she introduces herself and does not bothering saying anything else as they follow Cassandra further up the mountain.

They turn to her for guidance and she does not understand why. She’s itching to reach the temple as fast as she can. Maybe Mahanon is there, just as confused and lost as she. She opts to take the mountain path and ends up closing another rift. A spark of hope in her belly leads her feet to the temple. She cannot believe him to be gone. She can’t. He will be there, he will laugh at her for being so silly as to think he could so easily leave her. They will continue for Rivain, as they had planned, where they would settle down, maybe even start a family. All would be right.

She runs to the temple and freezes at the sound of a booming voice. She hears her own voice, full of confusion. There is terror surrounding her, blighted lyrium sprouting from the snow. Bodies scattered across the path.

There is a dark green cloak on the ground just mere feet away from where she stands. It bears his stitching, she would recognize the gold thread anywhere.

“Evelyn!” She hears Cassandra but she ignores her. Her foot slips on ice but she keeps moving, her veins thrumming with power. He’s going to be okay. He has to be okay.

She falls to her knees in the snow, shoving the cloak aside and she screams. That is _his_ dark, auburn hair matted with dried blood. It reeks of rot and blighted lyrium, he does not move. Why isn’t he moving? _No_.

There are hands on her she realizes. The sound of wailing fills the sight of the Conclave and belatedly she knows it comes from her. Evelyn is thrashing and kicking and cursing whoever touches her to whatever god is listening. His name pours from her lips like a desperate prayer, she is panting and reaching for him but she is reluctantly dragged away.

Gone. Please, Gods, Maker, whoever is listening. No.

A wave of magic envelops her, the feeling of soothing light washing over her eyes. She feels her body shuddering violently, her vision swimming, her throat absolutely parched. She doesn’t look at Solas as he leans over her, calming her with his magic. She doesn’t want to not feel this. She can’t. He’s gone.

“We must keep moving,” Cassandra insists, although the bite is gone from her voice. Evelyn stands on unsteady legs and does not turn around. She cannot.

 

* * *

 

They are only a few days away from the Conclave. She’s lounging back in the hot spring, enjoying the smell of pine and the spray of warm water soothing her aching back. Mahanon giggles into her hair, wrapping his strong arms around her from behind. He tucks his face into her neck and kisses the skin between her shoulders.

“Where shall we go after the Conclave?” He asks her playfully, tugging her deeper into the hot spring and she lets him. A smile blooms on her lips, one born of pure happiness and contentment.

“Rivain, my dear husband. Was that not the plan?” She turns in his arms so that she’s facing him and throws her arms around his neck, leaning up to place an insistent kiss on his lips. He tastes of the honey they had in their pack.

“That would probably be best, _Ara’asha_. Evelyn Lavellan,” he grins at the sound of her new name on his lips. “It is still a wonder to me that you wanted to take my name.”

“It’s far prettier than Trevelyan, I think. Besides I owe my family nothing after they handed me over to the Circle. I’m yours now. Always,” Evelyn coos up to her husband and his smile broadens.

“ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he whispers and she closes her eyes, marveling at how very lucky she was to know him. To love him and to have his love.

“I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

 

She wakes up and her hand flies to the other side of the bed. Empty. Her eyes open and she is in a room she does not recognize. A crash has her flying upwards to find a terrified Elven woman scramble back.

“I’m so sorry, Herald! The lady Cassandra requested your presence in the Chantry when you woke!” The girl says hurriedly and suddenly it all comes back to her and her breath catches in her throat. Not a dream. He is gone.

The girl hurries off, the door closing behind her with a resounding click. She is alone again in a strange room and her husband is dead. Magic spills from her fingertips, automatically setting a ward to silence her.

Her body curls in on itself, collapsing into the bed as her body shakes with sobs. What is she supposed to do? Where will she go without him? How can she live without him?

She remembers everything and she cannot let it go. She sees his face, his smile, remembers his smell, his hands on her body, her name on his lips. Why couldn’t it have been her?! Mahanon would know what to do. He would have his shit together, he would mourn her but he could live without her. She knows he was strong enough. Was.

_Fuck_. There are no words to adequately describe her grief. It festers within her, until her tears have dried, her eyes are sore, her throat is aching from screaming. The desperate sobs and pleas stop and the spell dies with it.

She dresses in clothes she assumes were left for her and marches outside of the cabin to face whatever it is the Seeker has in store for her. Perhaps she is to be put to death. They blame her, after all, for the destruction of the Chantry. It would be good, she thinks, to meet her husband on the other side. Where she belongs.

The people murmur and point as she stalks past them, whispers and declarations of “Herald” briefly startling her before she continues to her death. Even tranquility would be preferable to this. She stops, forcing her eyes shut as she tries to reign in her overwhelming sorrow. Her nails dig into her palms, in a vain attempt to bring her back. She must move on. She must face the Chantry and she must face her death. She cannot be happy without him.

Resolved, Evelyn Lavellan throws open the doors and heads straight for the room where she hears the Seeker arguing with the disagreeable cleric they’d come across before. She hadn’t paid much attention to him then and she didn’t plan to now either.

“You! Put that _woman_ behind bars!” Evelyn doesn’t even flinch as she stoically faces the Seeker. Belatedly, she realizes that she must look quite the sight to the woman. Before she left the cabin, she hadn’t exactly bothered with her appearance. She imagines she must look positively haggard for the woman to be giving her such a pitiful look.

Closing her eyes, Evelyn leans back against the wall and listens to the Seeker spout nonsense about an Inquisition and the cleric, Chancellor Roderick, argue back and forth before he disappears in a huff. She doesn’t think about it, she doesn’t care. She’ll be dead soon enough anyway.

“Will you help us, Herald?” Cassandra finally deigns to address her, her dark eyes boring into her.

“Herald of what?” Evelyn demands, her arms crossed and back straight.

“The people believe you to be our Herald of Andraste. Only you have the power to close the rifts and we need your help restoring order,” another woman chimes in, her tone cool and calculating.

“I am no prophet. You wanted me dead earlier, I do not understand the sudden change of heart,” she argues stepping forward to fully face the women.

“I – we, believe you to be innocent. From what we witnessed at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, we do not think you responsible for the destruction. We want to end this war between the mages and the Templars. It is our duty,” Cassandra answers, full of conviction.

“Perhaps you should just kill me and be done with it. I’m nothing but a rebel mage and I have no cause anymore. I am biased towards the mages, I bear no good will towards the Templars. You do not need me. _Kill me_ ,” the mage insists, hands shaking as she slams them into the table.

“On the contrary, we very much need you to close the rifts. Only you have the power to do so,” the other woman reminds her and it takes everything in her power to reign in her anger.

“Why do you have a death wish? Do you admit guilt?” Cassandra questions suspiciously and Evelyn groans.

“I have done nothing but assist you so far while _my heart is in pieces_. I cannot bear another waking moment in this fucking world without him!” She cries, shoving away from the table and collapsing into herself. _Breathe_. She cannot.

All is quiet for a moment as her words ring throughout the room. She owes these people nothing, least of all her grief. Staggering, Evelyn stands and makes a beeline for the door. Before hurrying from the Chantry, she speaks quietly, “Do with me what you will but for now – just a little while –  let me be.”

Haven, she now realizes is the town she occupies, is somehow bustling with activity and quiet all at once. People move and go about their business as usual but when she enters the square, they stare. There’s no way she can face them now.

She locks herself in the cabin she had woken in, once more casting wards and letting herself be overcome by grief. It is days before she can emerge.

 

* * *

 

Never before had she truly cursed being a somniari. Her Circle training had unfortunately lacked knowledge when it came to those who could walk the Fade. She could never truly master her dreams and now _he_ was there, smiling and screaming and reaching for her.

“ _Why did you leave me_?” He cries and she doesn’t know why. She forces herself awake and regards her surroundings.

It is dark, the light of the moons dim inside of her tiny cabin. Evelyn straps her staff to her back, stepping into her boots and snatching a few bottles of lyrium before she rushes out of the door. The feeling of the cold night is welcome on her too-hot skin as she walks out of the gates.

She has not eaten, has barely slept, has cried and wailed and cursed and it has all been in vain. He will never return to her. Breaking into a run, Evelyn scales the trees and embraces the tightness in her chest from breathing too hard. With any luck she will beat herself into a deep sleep.

Uncaring for those who would see her, the mage unleashes her power, her sorrow, her fury. How could he leave her behind? Who was she without him? Her hands twirl her staff expertly, swinging and parrying a branch before she engulfs the entire tree in flames. The blade at the end of her staff swipes and cuts at every leaf, twig, and burning branch as she loses herself.

Not once does she speak as she attacks everything in her surroundings. She wants to destroy something, to fight someone, to make them bring him back. He left her. He died. She was alone.

Her mana depleted, she downs a lyrium potion and continues to unleash her magic. Usually it was swift, precise, perfectly crafted as a former Circle mage’s should be. Now, she fights with an uncontrolled fury as she unleashes her anguish. She continues this process until dawn, until the lyrium supply is gone, until her eyes sag and her steps falter.

There is only ash surrounding her. She lies on her back and closes her eyes, inhaling the smell of burnt wood and the scent of her own magic. Faintly, very faintly, she can still smell Mahanon on her sleeve. This coat had indeed been his. She’d worn it without thinking, and now his scent would forever be gone from her and covered in her filth.

Tears pour down her face and she wraps her arms around herself. Gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translations (thanks to Project Elvhen!) 
> 
> Ara'asha - Wife 
> 
> Sa'lath - One love 
> 
> Ar lath ma - I love you


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn's not doing too good but she's trying.

People are reluctant to speak to her and she doesn’t blame them, especially after practically burning down the entire forest surrounding Haven. Still, she refrains from any other further outbursts as she slowly, very slowly begins to develop a sort of routine.

Evelyn is introduced to the other advisers of the Inquisition and she officially begins her duties as the Herald of Andraste. She had nowhere else to go and she figured the Inquisition was as good a place as any to die.

Her first task was to find a Chantry mother located deep in the heart of the Hinterlands. As she and the other party members travel, she tries not to think of the fact that she had been there only a week ago, her husband by her side. They were happy then. They thought they were finally ending a war. They thought they would finally begin a life together.

“So, Herald, I know we haven’t had much of a chance to talk but I just want to let you know that I’ve been told I’m a very good listener,” Varric Tethras interrupts her thoughts. She looks carefully at him, noting the pity in his warm eyes and the ridiculous amount of chest hair on display.

“I imagine you’re more of a storyteller,” she deflects, not unkindly. His eyes crinkle in amusement as he turns to regard her fully. There is recognition in his expression, knowing fully well she is avoiding his questioning, as he cocks his head and smirks up at her. 

“Oh, you’re a fan?” He sounds delighted and she nods, not quite smiling but not outright frowning at him.

“I’ve read _The Tale of the Champion_ ,” Evelyn answers simply and he chuckles. She doesn’t tell him that the story of Marian Hawke and Fenris had once inspired her and her husband. They had run off and been happy together, so why couldn’t she and Mal?

“And not _Hard in Hightown_? I’ve got some spare copies if you’re interested,” he offers and she tries for the briefest of smiles at his kindness but it doesn’t meet her eyes, she knows it cannot.

“That’s very kind of you. Thank you,” she responds as politely as she can. Staring at the trees surrounding them, she ignores the curious looks of the other party members.

“Herald, do you mind if I ask you why you were at the Conclave?” Cassandra cuts in after a brief pause and she closes her eyes, breathing in slowly. Every reminder still sent a sharp pang of unending sorrow to her heart. When she opens her eyes, she notices the Seeker patiently awaiting her response.

“I…had some hope of ending the war. Me and–” she stops. She cannot say his name. Clearing her throat, she continues as best as she can. “I was tired of fighting. I could never return to a Circle and w-we thought there would be a way to stand up for the mages.”

“What was his name?” Cassandra pushes and Evelyn flinches as if she’d been struck.

“We should keep moving,” the mage speaks quickly, standing from her spot on a fallen log and returning to the beaten path.

* * *

 

Each night as she lay in the quiet of her shared tent with Cassandra, she pretends _he_ is the one breathing soundly beside her. It’s not healthy, she knows, but she cannot bear to remember. To know he isn’t there with her. She can’t un-see his corpse and she wants to claw her own eyes out whenever it flashes across her mind.

More often than not, she abandons sleep in favor of keeping watch. Sometimes she will glance through _Hard in Hightown_ but it does little to catch her interest. She desperately wants to distract herself but at the same time she feels guilty for even entertaining the thought of forgetting that it had been _her fault_.

She sits by the fire, flickering and crackling, breathing in the smell of smoke and ash. It reminds her of the Temple. Swallowing and closing her eyes, she sees his body laid before her feet and her heart pounds insistently, reminding her that it still beats when it shouldn’t.

“Having trouble sleeping?” Solas yanks her abruptly out of her thoughts and she cannot say that she doesn’t welcome it.

“Ah, yes. As usual,” she answers so quietly, any other person wouldn't have heard her. The elf's lips thin as he takes a seat a few feet away from her on the same log and stares into the flames, just as she does. “You don’t have to worry, I’ll take your watch.”

“You’ve taken everyone’s watch these past few nights. Let me help, _da’len_ ,” he insists and she is shaken by the Elvhen on his tongue. _Da’len_. Mahanon had called her such during the early days of their acquaintance. It had driven her mad, insisting that she was only a year younger than him at best. They had been teenagers then, teasing and dancing around each other before their love had blossomed. He had been so young when he’d been taken to the Circle. He hadn’t even been old enough to receive his _vallaslin_. Even then she knew how wrong the whole system was.

“Evelyn?” Solas asks her, tone worried and she shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she insists and moves to stand. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“Wait,” the elf reaches for her wrist and she backs up automatically. “The anchor… I’ve noticed that it’s been causing you pain.”

“I can tolerate the pain,” Evelyn brushes him off, clutching her hand protectively to her chest. Truthfully, the pain keeps her grounded. Distracts her.

“Why don’t you sit? It’s not safe beyond our camp. If it’s my company, I can return to my tent,” he offers politely and she frowns.

“Solas, you have done nothing to offend me. In fact, you’re the only person who has refrained from questioning me, which is nice. I just… need a distraction,” the mage assures him, although her tone is strained.

“I can tell you about my journeys in the Fade, if it please you,” he suggests and something in the offer immediately piques her interest. She is surprised to find herself sitting back down, fully attentive of the elf before her.

“You are a somniari? I’ve never met another,” Evelyn admits, slightly embarrassed. “I haven’t been able to master it.”

His ears twitch at that, an inherently Elvhen trait that really shouldn’t remind her of her husband but it does nonetheless. Every time Mahanon would become interested in something, his ears would twitch ever so slightly. She’d been enchanted by it. Shaking her head as if to dispel of the memory, Evelyn flicks her eyes back to the elf and tries to fully focus on him.

“Truly? I could lend some assistance if you wish, Herald. I’ve learned much from the Fade and I would be happy to show you,” Solas asks almost eagerly. Her head nods of its own volition, the thought of finally honing the ability giving her some small shred of hope. Perhaps the nightmares would stop. "I admit I have not had the pleasure of meeting another Fade Walker in quite a long time." 

As they sit beside each other, conversing about battlefields and balls, fallen kingdoms and empires, hope and love and all manner of emotion, Evelyn feels not necessarily content, but at peace. It’s difficult not to think of Mahanon, it likely always will be. Yet the sound of this elf’s voice was soothing and he seemed wise beyond his years. It was almost like being an apprentice again in the Circle, without the constant threat of the Templars looming over her shoulder.

Eventually, her consciousness manages to slip past her and she finds herself once again in the rugged terrain of the Fade. A voice is there to greet her, as it always has been these past several nights.

“ _Why did you walk away_?”

“ _You live and I do not. How could you, sa’lath_?”

There is no image of him to greet her this time, thankfully. The guilt eats away at her and yet she remains still, listening. She deserves this. It’s her fault after all. She should be dead.

“It is a dream, _da’len_ ,” a new voice interrupts and Evelyn whips her head up to find Solas calmly strolling across the terrain towards her, his hands clasped securely behind his back. “Focus on the sound of my voice. Only me.”

“ _You’d so easily forget me_.”

With a mere flick of the elf’s wrist, silence descended upon her realm in the Fade once more. “Despair should not bother you anymore. Why did you not tell me you were being tormented by a demon? I could have helped you far sooner.”

It was strange being scolded by Solas. He wasn’t truly angry, just confused. Shrugging, Evelyn turns away from him. She doesn’t think there could possibly be an easy way to address him. “It is a personal matter.”

“It is dangerous, _da’len_ ,” he pushes and for whatever reason, that makes her bristle with frustration.

“I am no child,” she changes the subject, crossing her arms defensively as she glances back at him. "You keep calling me that." 

“Compared to me you are.”

“You cannot be older than forty. I’m an adult, a married woman–” she sucks in a breath. “ _Was_ a married woman.”

A look of pity crosses the elf’s face and she bites back a scowl. Everyone pities her. The tragically, broken Herald of Andraste. “I have no wish to make you uncomfortable. If you prefer I do not call you that, I will stop.”

Solas is placating her, she knows this, but she suddenly feels like an asshole. Letting out a sigh of frustration while running her fingers through her long, brown hair she gives him an apologetic look. “Forgive me. I know I have been… a bit difficult throughout our acquaintance. You can call me whatever I suppose.”

A mischievous twinkle in his eyes has her raising a brow as he replies swiftly. “How about _Da’felasil_?” 

His deadpan delivery startles a sudden laugh out of her and the moment she realizes it, she stops, stunned. It is the first time she has laughed in weeks. The mirth is gone from her voice but she shakes her head and smiles up at him nonetheless. He seems just as surprised by her reaction.

“Perhaps not that.”

“We shall see in time. You do not need to apologize for anything, Herald. I understand more than you may think,” he speaks solemnly, voice laced with something unidentifiable. Shaking his head as if to dispel memories of his own, he waves his hand around their surroundings. “Now let us explore. Before long, you should have no trouble navigating the Fade. As most magic, it is all a matter of concentration.”

She follows him and he shows her far more than she ever thought possible.

* * *

 

The Hinterlands is a mess but for the most part, the Inquisition does their best in repairing the damage the war had caused. They spend far longer than necessary there, feeding villagers, closing rifts, fighting bandits and rogue Templars alike. The first time Evelyn faces the rebel mages, she tries in vain to calm them but they attack in a frenzy anyway. She is forced to kill those she had once been allies with and she feels absolutely wretched.

“I don’t understand,” Evelyn starts, staring down at the bodies of the desperate mages. Her words are wavering, her hands clenched in a panic. “They were my friends.”

“They know not what they do, Herald,” Cassandra tries to comfort her with a hand on her shoulder but Evelyn steps away, too stunned to speak any further. She is a monster.

“ _Traitor_ ,” the word is quiet, barely above a whisper, and pained. Her eyes land on a fallen mage, her green eyes wide and locked on her. “Y-you betrayed us.”

Shocked beyond measure, to hear her fears confirmed, she reaches out towards the other mage, falling to her knees before her. The rebel mage’s blonde hair is matted with blood, her robes charred and tattered. “ _No_ …”

“How could you?” She spits and Evelyn flinches.

Before she can speak, she is tugged back to her feet and being led away from the carnage. Destruction and death that she herself had wrought. A gentle hand on the small of her back guides her out of the cave and back into the light of morning in the lush countryside.

“Come, Herald,” Solas murmurs and she lets him take her wherever he pleases. Evelyn doesn’t have the heart to protest. She thinks she hears the others follow on her heels but the mage has stopped paying much attention to her surroundings.

They stop in a clearing, littered with wildflowers, a babbling brook along its perimeter. Solas urges her to sit beside him on a large slab of granite and begins to inspect her injuries. “You neglected to tell us you were stabbed, Herald.”

“Slipped the mind,” the words are spoken blandly, eyes staring into space. All she can see is the look of utter betrayal in her fellow rebel mage’s green eyes.

The warmth of Solas’s magic envelops the wound in her shoulder where another mage had managed to stab her with the end of his staff. She’d barely felt it at the time, her adrenaline thoroughly distracting her from the pain. Now, as the apostate used his magic to clear the wound and close the skin she keenly feels the sting behind it.

“You should not be so reckless,” he scolds and she hears Varric and Cassandra mutter their agreements under hushed breaths. Evelyn shrugs, uncaring of what the others may think. To fall in battle wouldn’t be so terrible, especially to fall to her own people when she may as well have betrayed them.  

“It’s not that big of a deal,” the Herald argues and when she looks up at Solas, his soft brows are furrowed in frustration.

“Considering you alone hold the key to our salvation, I would say your safety is paramount,” he snips back, poking a finger into her newly healed skin and she hisses.

“Hm.” Evelyn slips down from the rock and brushes off her coat. “Well, I’m going to find a place to wash the gore off. I’ll return shortly.”

As she starts to walk away, she frowns, remembering her manners. Turning around quickly, catching the apostate’s eye she tries for a smile ever so slightly. “Thank you for healing me.”

Solas gives her an unamused nod of acknowledgement. The Herald disappears back into the trees, following the steady stream of water that inevitably will lead to a larger spring. What she finds, leaves her speechless. She should have known, should have recognized the area, the smell.

What she finds on the outskirts of the clearing is the hidden location of the hot springs she and Mahanon had stumbled upon before reaching the Conclave. The very sight of the bubbling spring and eroded rock is staggering. Tears come to her eyes, unbidden, and her body trembles as she approaches the once-welcoming water.

They had been so happy then. They had plans, had a future. To look at such a place, to remember his touch and his lips on her skin in that very spring before her was unbearable. Falling to her knees, Evelyn leans over the spring and plunges her head below the surface.

The water is ridiculously warm and a shock against her cool skin. Her fingers are clenched tightly to the edge of the rock as she leans over, gripping desperately as she tries to calm herself. She cannot. Her mouth falls open and she screams as loud as she can, full of pain and loss and despair. The others cannot hear her under the water.

Evelyn screams until her lungs ache, until her chest burns with the effort of holding her breath and she needs to breathe. Whipping her head back up, her sopping wet hair flies behind her as she gasps for air, sputtering and hacking to breathe. She falls back against the wet rock and stares up at the endlessly blue sky above. It taunts her.

“Are you alright?” A familiar, solemn voice calls from somewhere behind her and she doesn’t answer directly. She cannot.

“We should keep moving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translation (thanks to Project Elvhen!): 
> 
> Da'len - Little One 
> 
> Da'felasil - Little Fool (Solas is basically calling her a dumbass)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Funeral

Getting roped into visiting Orlais is challenging. Yet she will do what she must. Her husband had spoken to her before of seeing Val Royeaux, both knowing it was unlikely they would ever be able to freely walk the city. They were both mages and he an elf. Orlais did not look kindly upon either, especially a man such as her husband.

He had loved the idea of witnessing such grandeur, nonetheless. During late nights of holding each other close by the fire, he had revealed to her fantasies of traipsing freely around a massive city. To take her to balls, to dress up and wear the mysterious masks so fashionable throughout the country. To see plays and massive symphonies perform with the voices of hundreds of people singing in perfect harmony. In those fantasies, the chorus would be comprised of humans and elves, dwarves and Qunari alike. It would never happen, especially in a place like Orlais, but they spoke dreamily of it anyway.

It felt almost like a betrayal to finally walk the city without him. Bare-faced and wearing well-worn armor. She had no desire to bear a mask, to hide her grim expression. This was her now, however sad and angry she appeared to these vain people, the Herald would not hide herself.

“Herald,” a familiar voice called to her as they crossed the gates leading into the city proper. She turned to regard First Enchanter Fiona, a woman Evelyn had allied herself with so many months ago. The shock must have shown on her face as the older woman approached hesitantly.

“Fiona, it has been a long time,” Evelyn spoke carefully, unable to mask the surprise in her voice. Seeing the First Enchanter in the flesh for the first time in a while made her unreasonably wary.

“Indeed, it has been. I am glad to see you well. How is Mahanon?” The woman asks innocently, a somewhat guarded smile on her lips. His name. She tries not to let the hurt show on her face but the smile immediately dies on the Enchanter’s lips.

It takes her a moment to compose herself, shaking her head firmly and looking determinedly at the ground. There is a brief pause of silence before Fiona speaks. “I am sorry, Herald. I did not know.”

“What brings you to Val Royeaux?” Cassandra cuts in quickly, Gods bless her. Fiona eyes the Seeker beside her warily before focusing her eyes back on the Herald.

“We wish to speak with the Inquisition in Redcliffe. The mages need your help, Herald. If you have any sympathy left with your fellow mages, I beg you–”

“Of course, I will,” Evelyn interrupts her fellow mage’s speech, voice laced with sadness and passion. They were her people. Are her people.

And so, the Inquisition made plans to speak to the mages in Redcliffe as soon as they were able. Evelyn would not abandon them now. Not when she actually had the power to do something. After that was settled, they moved into the square where a Chantry mother was preaching about the evils of the newly formed Inquisition.

A fight had erupted when the Templars had burst into the square, swinging punches and spewing vitriol. Cassandra had tried to talk some sense into her former brethren, the Lord Seeker Lucius, but the Templars would not listen. The Chantry mother lay in a stunned heap on the ground and Evelyn did not hesitate to lend her a hand, despite the other woman’s earlier accusations against her organization mere moments before. Solas and Varric watched with great interest while she offered this woman a kindness. Perhaps they thought she was undeserving, but Evelyn knew a thing or two about compassion.  

The trip to Val Royeaux left her feeling drained. She’d been fighting constantly, nonstop, even attending a ball and recruiting a woman she had no desire to recruit. Yet she could not deny the help, the Inquisition needed all the allies they could find. Luckily, they ended up with two more members of their party to join them on the trip back to the Hinterlands by the end of their stay in Val Royeaux.

As they traveled on horseback into the more gentle terrain of the Hinterlands, their new archer decided now was as good a time as any to strike up a conversation with the famed Herald. “You don’t talk much, do ya?”

A wry, if not strained smile was her answer. “Oh, come on! Yer actin’ all mysterious and stuff. With that weird glowy hand and yer beady eyes!”

“Beady eyes?” Evelyn deadpans, entirely unamused, and Sera cackles.

“I knew that would get ya.”

Evelyn lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls her eyes at the lively elf. “Alright, what do you want to know about me?”

The sudden silence is jarring. Every member of the party has ceased their separate conversations to apparently listen to the elusive Herald finally talk about herself. Varric even appears slightly offended that it's the new, mouthy elf the Herald has apparently chosen to open up to. 

“I dunno, where ya from?” Sera tries and Evelyn finally speaks.

“Ostwick. I come from a noble family just outside of the city,” she answers dutifully, almost wistfully.

“The Trevelyans? You are a Trevelyan?” Lady Vivienne cuts in, her voice astonished. “I would have _never_ guessed you were of noble blood.”

Evelyn fights the urge to openly scoff at Vivienne’s thinly veiled insult. “I have not been a Trevelyan for a long time. I left that name behind me the moment they abandoned their own eleven-year-old daughter. They’re a bunch of noble prigs if you ask me.”

Sera snorts, giving her a delighted look. “You might be a freaky mage, but you’re alright, Your Ladybits!”

Evelyn lets out a chuckle and the party is officially stunned. Varric bellows, astonished, “Did you just make the Herald laugh?”

“That’s not so weird, innit?” Sera asks, confused before turning back and grinning madly at Evelyn. “You do pranks?”

 “I was an absolute terror in the Circle. I’ll admit it’s been a while,” she confesses and the elf practically jumps in her saddle.

“Oh, you and me, we’re gonna have so much fun!”

“A smile looks good on you, Herald,” Varric beams and this time Evelyn does roll her eyes.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to tell a woman to smile?” Cassandra cuts in for her and she gives the Seeker a grateful smirk. It’s strange, but she feels good. Smiling.

* * *

 

All the way to the Hinterlands and back to Haven, a dam seems to break. The party openly cracks jokes now, much to Vivienne’s chagrin, and begins peppering Evelyn with endless questions about her life and things she likes and doesn’t like. There is no talk of love or politics, thankfully, although the topic of religion does happen to come up every once in a while.

“You are not Andrastian, Herald?” Vivienne wonders aloud as the party travels through the snow towards Haven. Their newest recruit, the Warden Blackwall, has been suspiciously quiet until now.

“I do not follow any particular religion, Madame de Fer,” she answers truthfully.

“How could you not? The people see you as their Herald of Andraste,” Blackwall finally speaks up, his gruff voice startling the lot of them.

“What the people choose to see me as is none of my business, but I won’t lie to them should they ask. I do not believe I am any sort of prophet,” Evelyn tries to explain her beliefs but she is rather uncomfortable doing it. It has been a long time since she has expressed her opinion. She remembers speaking so very passionately about her hopes and dreams, her beliefs, with Mahanon. Such a time has now passed. 

“If you are not Andrastian, do you not follow any other religion?” Cassandra asks curiously.

“No, not really. I will respect other peoples’ beliefs but they are not my own. I do not believe in any other gods. I can’t.” The Maker wouldn’t have taken Mahanon from her if he was real. Certainly, any other higher powers didn’t care. Why should she offer any of these supposed beings her faith when they took the only happiness she had ever known?

“Your thoughts are intriguing, Herald,” Solas quips, his stormy eyes fixed peculiarly on her. His gaze makes her squirm in her saddle, making her look forward again towards the path. “You are wise beyond your years.”

"So, you agree with the Herald? Do you also not hold any beliefs?” Cassandra inquires after her fellow apostate.

“I never said that,” he responds and so a theological debate begins while she and Sera share an exasperated groan.

* * *

 

The Inquisition party arrives at Haven promptly around midday and their greeting is met with little fanfare. The citizens are quiet and guarded, even more so than usual, and stifled wails could be heard faintly throughout the village. Her advisers are there to meet them at the gate, a sorrowful look in the Commander’s eyes immediately sending a pang of alarm to her heart.

“Commander, what’s going on?” The Herald demands, swiftly dismounting from the horse gifted to her by their new Horsemaster, Dennet. The former Templar shifts on his feet, avoiding her eyes, his hand lightly gripping the hilt of his sword attached to his belt.

“Herald, you’ve arrived at a rather unfortunate time,” Josephine cuts in with an apologetic gleam in her eyes.

“The intact bodies of those killed during the Conclave have been recovered. We’re preparing them for the pyre and a memorial service,” Spymaster Leliana says curtly, directly to the point. She feels her breath catch in her throat, her eyes go large, as she faces the Spymaster. “I-is he…?”

“He is in the Chantry,” Leliana says and Evelyn is gone. Her feet move of their own volition. She doesn’t want to see him, because it isn’t him, it couldn’t be. It will hurt, it will steal the very air from her lungs, she knows this and yet she won’t stop moving.

She bursts through the doors and follows the scent of death. It permeates _everything_ in this Maker-forsaken place. Families are mourning their loved ones, praying on their knees before the altar where a statue of Andraste raises her arms to the heavens. Evelyn ignores them, walking into a room where she feels in her heart she will find him.

He lays there so still in the middle of the room, the window barely letting in any light. The candles flicker against his face, so pale and gaunt, cheeks sunken, lips grey. She only sees a time when the sun would leave his bronze skin so warm. The door swings shut behind her as she steps forward, prostrate and reaching, knowing she will find no such warmth there.

His palm is _so cold_. The body has been preserved, she knows not if by the natural frost of the mountain, magic, or the blighted lyrium that coated the Temple. Mahanon’s dark, red hair has been cleaned of blood, his body cleared of dirt. His forest green coat with the golden stitching has been washed and placed on a chair beside the table along with the other belongings he’d brought along with him. She spots his wedding ring, the silver reflecting the light. The room smells of death and incense. Her eyes are focused on his face, eyes forever shut, never to open and to look upon her in recognition again.

It’s not the same, but she kneels before him and bows her head anyway. Her body wracks with sobs that she tries not to unleash and yet she fails. Her fingers dig into his hand, so rigid, she can’t possibly let him go. She’ll stay with him for as long as she can.

“Mahanon,” she starts shakily, her voice so quiet and defeated. “I-I’m here, my love.”

Reaching for the ring – _how dare they take it from him?_ – she tentatively slips it back into place on his left finger. It doesn’t fit quite right, not like it used to. It belongs there all the same.

“ _Lasan ara'sal, sule ha'lam'sal'shiral,_ remember?” She speaks reverently, a smile on her lips while her tears fall freely now. He’s not there to stop them. “You were not supposed to leave me.”

She slips her fingers between his, clutching to them like a lifeline. “They call me their Herald of Andraste, Mal, I-i don’t know _why_.”

The anger rises in her and she hates herself for it. He’s not there to stop it. “Why did you have to die? _Why_? What about me? What about that life you promised for us!?”

Her tears fall onto his body, soaking into the clothes he will be burned in. She remembers when he wore them so casually as his traveler's garb. “I miss you.”

“ _I miss you_ ,” she repeats and she says it over and over again as she cries. Never has she felt so raw. In these past weeks she has cried more tears than she has ever allowed herself to spill in her entire lifetime.

“Please,” Evelyn begs him, begs Gods she knows cannot exist, and yet he does not move. He is _so cold_. A hand on her shoulder startles her, her head whipping up and body going rigid. She finds Cassandra there behind her, her own eyes swollen and red-rimmed.

“Herald, you should leave this place,” the Seeker suggests and her voice is uncharacteristically somber.

“I can’t,” she refuses, turning back to her husband but not making any attempts to move her hand from her shoulder.

“I…know what it is like, Herald,” she answers softly. It only sparks her ire once more. She shoves the Seeker’s hand away.

“Oh, _do you_?” Evelyn practically spits. To her credit, the Seeker doesn’t even flinch. Instead, her eyes focus on the flickering light of the candle on the nearby table.

“His name was Regalyan. He was a mage and we attended the Conclave together. I was in Haven when… I told him I would be at the Temple of Sacred Ashes soon. He said he would wait for me there. They couldn’t find his body,” Cassandra spoke and her voice was so far away, her eyes remaining firmly on the candle. Evelyn has never felt more wretched. She does not let go of her husband but she doesn’t hesitate to take the Seeker’s hand and squeeze.

“I’m so sorry,” she speaks in earnest, tone wavering as a fresh wave of tears fall down her reddened cheeks. “I did not realize you had lost someone too.”

Cassandra blinks away tears and nods her acknowledgement. “Grief is selfish. I couldn’t talk about it and neither could you. That’s okay.”

Evelyn and Cassandra do not speak for some time. Each is lost in their own sorrows, their hands clasped together tightly, a lifeline, as they bow their heads and say their respective goodbyes. She leaves her with her husband’s body, alone, after some time and she doesn’t want to burn him, doesn’t want to let go. If only he knew how much she needed him, would gladly follow him into death if only circumstances would allow her.

It is hours before Cassandra returns to collect her for the mass pyre. Mother Giselle is there to deliver a sermon but Evelyn is not content with just that. How can she turn away, how can she leave his body? It’s not enough. All different peoples had attended the Conclave, Dalish and Andrastians alike. When Mother Giselle ends her speech, Evelyn calls for any Dalish or even city elf who knew and could deliver the final rites for their fallen people.

There is a stunned silence before a woman hesitantly steps forward. She wields a staff on her back, her face bearing June’s _vallaslin_. “I would be honored to perform the rites, as the former First of Clan Thehlen.”

Evelyn waves for her to speak any words that would do their people justice. Mahanon never did go into much detail about his people’s death rites. He rarely spoke of death at all. He went through life so certain that he would live long and happily. So did she. 

Words are spoken in a language that Evelyn doesn’t much understand. After years of being by Mal's side, she understands the gist of it. He hadn't been fluent either, having spent too many years away from his people and locked in the Circle with her. There are eyes on her, appraising her and waiting for a reaction from their Herald. She will give them nothing but silence. The fire and smoke rise to the stars, the smell of burning flesh sending a wave of nausea through her belly. As the others leave, she remains still, staring into the dying flames and knowing it is the last she will ever see of Mahanon Lavellan. The smoke dances into the sky and if she believed in any Gods, she thinks right about now is the time they would embrace her lover's spirit and guide him into eternal peace. 

She finds Cassandra on the other side of the pyre, her head bowed in prayer, and she dares not interrupt. When she turns her head, she is surprised to find Solas calmly watching her with sad, stormy eyes and lips down-turned. He catches her eye and approaches swiftly.

“I will not intrude on your privacy, Herald, but I wish to offer my condolences,” Solas speaks gently, his tone soft. “If you need anything at all, I will be here.”

Evelyn doesn’t know what to say at first but she knows that she is close to breaking. As he bows his head and turns to leave, she impulsively reaches out and grabs his wrist. Eyes brimming with tears once more, she speaks shakily, “ _Please don’t leave me alone_.”

The elf looks torn, his eyes wide and unsure. She lets go of his wrist, embarrassed, and shakes her head. “Forgive me, I should not ask that of you. I just…I can’t.”

Quickly shaking his head, he steps forward and offers a tentative smile. “I said I would be here and I intend to keep my word. Anything you need.”

Mahanon had once spoken to her of Arlathan. The glory of the Elvhen empire. He had longed to see something so grand, where his people flourished and were not subject to the oppression of human civilization.

“You have shown me much in the Fade already, for which I am grateful, but I wonder if your travels have shown you Arlathan. Mal – _he_ spoke of it. Sometimes. I would like to hear about it, if you can tell me,” she explains lamely and his gaze widens, ears twitching slightly. Perhaps he had not expected her to ask such a thing of him. 

“I would be honored, _Lethal’len_ ,” Solas says in earnest and she nods and lets him guide her away from her husband’s pyre and back into Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translations: 
> 
> Lasan ara'sal, sule ha'lam'sal'shiral - I give you my soul, until the end of life’s journey
> 
> Lethal'len - Friend, Kin


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn has a flashback and makes a new friend.   
> [I recommend this song to accompany the chapter.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2abBF2W9RJw)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot stop writing this angst, I'm sorry. Just to let you guys know, I'm going to LA Pride and won't be updating this all weekend. I'm on summer break now so I do have some time, so let's just say my goal for now is to update at least once or twice a week maybe?

“The Templars have just as much to offer as the mages, if not more, to close the Breach!” Cullen insists hotly, his hand tightly gripping the pommel of his sword.

“I understand that, Commander, but I do not feel comfortable having dozens of Templars directing their power into me at once!” The Commander scoffs and shakes his head in disbelief.

“And you feel comfortable with mages doing that instead?” He demands.

“Infinitely more comfortable actually,” Evelyn fires back and Josephine interrupts the two nervously.

“Perhaps we should reconvene on the matter in the morning,” she suggests smoothly, her eyes warm and placating. Shaking her head in frustration, Evelyn glares back at the Commander.

"We don’t have the luxury of time. I will fully admit to being biased towards the mages, I warned you all as much before I even agreed to this. They are my people and forgive me, Commander, for being afraid and uncomfortable having the Templars roaming freely around Haven after they abused me for years! I will _not_ have them keeping tabs on me anymore. Never again.” The Herald finishes her little speech and collapses back into the chair. The Spymaster gives Cullen a fiery look while the Commander himself has the foresight to look slightly ashamed. “We should come to a decision tomorrow, Lady Josephine. By the afternoon, we should move out wherever we may plan to go.”

The ambassador to the Inquisition gives her a sympathetic smile as Evelyn stands to go. She’s more than done with this conversation. How many nights had she spent shivering in her shared rooms, terrified and wondering whether or not it would be her turn? She was powerless to stop them, if she dared speak up, they would only kill her or worse, make her Tranquil.

Mahanon had been her escape. He’d protect her as best as he could, although he was just as powerless as she. It was how they fell in love. His touch was wanted, was reverent, their stolen kisses and hushed pleas a song to her ears, trysts behind bookcases and alcoves the only thing either had to look forward to. Only now, she couldn’t turn to him. She was scared and shaking, remembering what the Templars did to her, the holy smites and their warm, foul breaths on her neck. What could she do without _him_?

“Whoa there, Herald, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Varric shakes her out of her grim thoughts. She hadn’t even realized she’d wandered outside of the Chantry.

"I suppose I have. Just bad memories,” Evelyn dismisses her distress so easily. Too easily. It’s still too much, too raw, and she can’t even remember the Templar’s name, the one who had such an obsession with her.

_"Breathe, Evie. He can never touch you again. I made sure of that,” Mahanon soothes her, his own voice rough with emotion. She knows how much it hurts him to see her like this. Broken and scared, remembering in the dead of night. Deep in the recesses of her mind, logically she knows that she is safe now. There is no reason to fear the night anymore. Mal had killed the very Templar with his bare hands and the rebellion had been in full force ever since. They wouldn’t go back, they couldn’t. “I’m here. Always and forever.”_

When she comes to, she is on the ground, cowering in horror and hyperventilating. Her breaths come too sharp, her eyes are too wild. Varric, the poor dwarf, is in a tizzy and scrambling for help. How pathetic has she become?

Arms envelop her and for a brief moment, she catches the scent of wildflowers on the wind. _Mahanon_. It is gone as soon as it came. In its place is parchment and pine where there should be wildflowers and sunlight, the scent of spring looming on the horizon. There are tears freely streaming down her face as she is carried away from the alarmed onlookers, but she has gone too limp to protest.

“ _Breathe, Evelyn_.”

She tries, she really does. It… it hurts. They can’t touch her, not anymore, she is too powerful. How can someone so powerful be so weak? The apostate’s healing magic is soothing her again, and she comes to in his arms. What choice does she have?

“What happened?”

"I don’t know, she just came out of the Chantry looking scared as shit and then she just broke down!”

“Something must have happened with the advisers.”

“Indeed. She was likely triggered by the Commander’s insistence on recruiting the Templars. None of us quite realized the depths of her mistreatment by their hands.” Evelyn vaguely recognizes the sound of the Spymaster’s voice. “I shall be having a discussion with the Commander. In the meantime… keep her safe, Solas.”

“I intend to, Spymaster.”

The click of the door follows Leliana’s retreat from this unknown cabin. Evelyn opens her sore eyes and finds Solas and Varric looking down at her expectantly. There are books scattered about the place and an abandoned cup of tea on the desk across the room. Maker, she hates this. Never has she possibly been more embarrassed. Before now, only Mal has ever seen her in such a state and now the whole of Haven bore witness to the weakness of their Herald of Andraste.

Evelyn bolts upright, startling both the elf and the dwarf, swinging her legs over the bed to stand. “Herald, I would advise against leaving – ”

“My name is Evelyn Lavellan. I’m no Herald of anything,” she spits despite knowing neither of them deserve her anger.

Pushing past them, she makes for the door until an insistent tug on her wrist has her spinning back around against her will. Solas calmly pushes her back down to the bed. “Evelyn, I must insist that you stay here for now. You need to rest.”

“You are not my caretaker, Solas. I can handle myself,” she argues and Varric holds his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Listen, Evie, we only want to help you – ”

“Maker, _don’t_ call me that!” Evelyn practically shrieks. Varric looks apologetic as she makes to move again before Solas pushes her firmly down once more.

"Shit, sorry, I didn’t know,” Varric tries to reassure her. More tears flow down her reddened cheeks and she hates herself for it. Hates that these people who do not know her as well as they may believe can see her so broken. Hates that she knows better than to lash out at these people. They only want to help.

“I-I’m sorry,” the mage sobs, curling in on herself and covering her face with her hands. Her body trembles violently with her memories, with Mal’s voice, and she can’t possibly bear another second of this. “ _It should have been me!_ ”

“Evelyn, what – ”

“How is it fair that I live and he does not? I am the weak one, the Templars knew that and took advantage of me because they fucking _knew_ they could. I can barely look at Cullen without seeing that bastard and I want to be sick every single time. Mal would know what to do, he would make the wise decision, would look at the bigger picture but I CAN’T. I despise them, the whole lot of them, and refuse to be anywhere near them again. They hurt me, they hurt Mal, and he’s gone because of them. I should be dead. I should be dead. I should be dead…” Her words trail off as she begins repeating the mantra, rocking back and forth in a vain attempt to offer herself some form of comfort.

“Shit,” Varric murmurs before she feels his thick hand on her shoulder, grounding her back down to earth. “You place too little value on your life.”

“Master Tethras is right, Evelyn. The Inquisition would not be what it is now without you. You’re a kind spirit who has made a positive impact on many people’s lives already,” Solas finally speaks and his voice is uncharacteristically heavy and sad. She doesn’t look at him but accepts his touch as he brushes her hair back from her face, his fingers running through the strands and lightly brushing against her cheek. “I’m so sorry you bear this pain, _ma falon_.”

“Please,” she whispers, so quietly. “Please, just kill me.”

Solas’s stormy eyes go wide with trepidation, with horror and sorrow. Varric’s hand unintentionally clenches against her left shoulder while she looks expectantly to the both of them. “I think you know we cannot let that happen.”

“I am no fool, Varric. This mark is very likely going to kill me in the future. Why bother postponing what we all know will happen anyway?” Evelyn demands, her voice going monotone. She has been thinking of this for quite some time now. A month in fact, spent in agony without him. “Solas, you’ve studied the mark for a while now. There is no point in lying to me about what is inevitable. I’m sure the Inquisition could find another way to seal the rifts. I am not as needed as you all may think.”

“Evelyn, I… cannot give you an answer. I’m sorry,” Solas speaks grimly, an expression of unbridled pain flickering across his face before he can compose himself again. His fingers never once stop their caress in her hair. She doesn’t move to stop him.

“Evelyn, you are stronger than this. I’ve seen you fight, I’ve seen you protect people. Your heart is so big. Please, Kid, you’re breaking my heart,” Varric speaks seriously and his eyes hold an unbearable sadness in them. Evelyn is well aware of what Kirkwall has done to him and now she’s selfishly dumping her sorrows on top of that.

“I never should have said anything. I’m sorry to distress you, Varric,” she speaks sincerely and the dwarf flinches.

“No, that’s not what I meant – ”

“Evelyn,” Solas interrupts, his fingers under her chin, tilting her head up to look directly at him. Her dark, wet gaze meets his and he offers her the smallest smile on pale, pink lips. “It is time for you to rest.”

“No, please, I can’t go back and dream of it anymore,” she pleads and Solas shakes his head once, firmly.

“I won’t let anything harm you. I promise,” he says solemnly and she believes him, for whatever reason. She nods her head once at him and he casts his spell, pulling her into the deepest sleep she has ever known. There are no demons to greet her, no memories to taunt her, only a peaceful meadow and a blue sky that she knows Solas created as a sanctuary for her.

* * *

 

The spirit that approaches her gives off no aura of ill-will. It moves towards her in that peaceful little meadow that she recognizes as belonging to Solas. Her eyes are green, her hair light, her clothes impeccably clean.

“I see that you are in need of wisdom, my friend,” the spirit speaks softly, a knowing look in its bright eyes.

“Perhaps,” Evelyn admits, despite herself. The Circle had warned against convening with spirits, but Evelyn knows better. A spirit of Wisdom is uncorrupted, pure in its intent, possibly even friendly.

“Your sorrows are very loud on this side of the veil,” Wisdom remarks, sitting upon the tall grass beside her. “Yet no demons have yet latched themselves onto you.”

“I had little to do with that,” she answers quietly, thinking of the very apostate who had sent her to this peaceful place.

“Ah yes, I’d know that magic anywhere. I’m surprised our friend has taken such a fast liking to you,” the spirit says with a fond smile.

“Is it so strange for him to make friends?” The mage wonders aloud and Wisdom gives her a curious look.

“Indeed it is. Our mutual friend has wandered alone now for a very long time.” The spirit looks wistfully to the clouds in the sky above them. A light breeze filters through the trees surrounding them and something in what the spirit says makes Evelyn feel unbearably sad. Wisdom, being a spirit, immediately takes notice of her crestfallen expression. “I did not mean to trouble you, Herald of Andraste. Solas is a good man. He could use a friend like you.”

Evelyn smiles up at the spirit, however faintly, and shakes her head. To her, Solas has always been the very picture of composure. He is steady and gentle, wearing an unbreakable aura of calm. It is slightly unnerving to think of him as being lonely. “Please, I’m just… Evelyn. What makes you think Solas could possibly need me for?”

“The man takes to his name well; pride. He believes himself doomed to a life of solitude. He does not like to hear me speak of it very often, but I see the struggle in him. He’s far too prideful to ever ask another for help, for guidance. Other than me, of course,” Wisdom explains simply, leaning back to bask in the “sunlight”. Evelyn follows her, lying down in the grass and feeling the gentle warmth of the sun shine upon her. She closes her eyes and breathes in the smell of the greenery surrounding them.

“I’m so selfish,” the mage admits quietly. “I only see my sorrow when the people around me are experiencing their own struggles. What kind of Herald of Andraste am I?”

“You are grieving, Evelyn. It is not selfish of you to take the time to process your emotions. No one expects anything less,” the spirit answers, placing a gentle hand over her own. It’s strange how very real spirits feel in the Fade.

“Truthfully, I didn’t even think Solas thought very highly of me,” Evelyn begins and hears Wisdom stifle a chuckle. “What?”

Wisdom’s eyes are gleaming with amusement as she speaks. “You couldn’t be further from the truth. He admires your kindness, your strength. Our friend has grieved just as you are now, and he understands more than you may think.”

Evelyn ponders Wisdom’s words for a moment, trying to reconcile her companion’s feelings regarding her. She doesn’t know why he feels that way. If anything, she’s been nothing but a burden these past several weeks. Tearful and trembling, haggard and always tired. She’s never felt so weak, so foolish and broken.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I urge you to reconsider. Your feelings are only natural. To grieve as you are means that you have loved someone with your whole heart. There is nothing more pure of soul than a love such as yours. You are a strong, formidable woman, Evelyn. Please do not see this pain as a weakness.”

Wisdom’s words bring more tears to her eyes; it seems like everything does now. She’s so moved, so heartbroken, so… hopeful despite all that has been lost. “I just miss him so much, Wisdom.”

“I know, child,” the spirit soothes, the hand on top of her own now gently squeezing.

“Thank you,” Evelyn breathes out sincerely, looking upon the kind-hearted spirit and finally relaxing in the comfortable domain of her companion’s in the Fade.

* * *

 

Evelyn wakes in a strange bed, tucked into a thick quilt. She blinks her eyes slowly, taking in her surroundings and finds the soft, grey light of dawn filtering in through the cracked window overlooking the bed. The sound of scribbling directs Evelyn’s attention to the writing desk across the way where she finds Solas dipping his quill into an inkpot before continuing his writings. Has he been there all night?

The mere thought that he had stayed awake all night, lending her his own bed, makes her feel unworthy. She has done nothing to deserve such kindness, especially from a man she has done nothing but place her sorrows on. What a pitiful creature she is. Yet all the while, her heart feels swollen with something… odd. Gratitude, perhaps. It has been a long while since she felt that she could freely call someone a friend.

The mage says nothing as she listens to the scratching of the quill on vellum, watching the first rays of sunlight peek through the window to illuminate the cabin. The light flickers against the rainbow of glasses containing the many herbs the apostate keeps stored above his workstation. His ears twitch on occasion, his back is uncharacteristically hunched over, he stops every so often to dip his quill in the ink or straighten his spine.

For whatever reason, Evelyn hadn’t taken much notice of her companion’s overall appearance until now. He was far taller and broader than the average elf. Before, she assumed Mahanon had been the tallest elf she’d ever met, standing equal in height beside her. It is slightly jarring to have to crane her neck upwards to make eye contact with Solas. She notices how stiff he always is, how he holds himself back, refrains from always speaking his mind. It’s inevitable that she begins to wonder what goes through his brilliant mind. How had he learned to master the Fade all alone in the wilderness? There are no demons at work, she would have known. Has he spent all of his life learning from spirits such as Wisdom? Just how old is he anyway?

The man in question clears his throat and turns in his chair, taking notice of her staring. “Hera – I mean, Evelyn, I hadn’t noticed you were awake.”

She feels her cheeks aflame and looks away, embarrassed to be caught staring so blatantly. “Forgive me, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my friend,” Solas says seriously and she feels suddenly so touched at the endearment that more tears come to her eyes. Blinking them back furiously, she sits up and runs her fingers through her mussed hair.

“Have you been awake all night?” Evelyn changes the subject, looking determinedly at the wall in front of her. She feels his intense, worried gaze on her.

“…Yes. I did not wish to disturb your rest,” he admits so casually, as if it was no trouble.

“Solas, you didn’t have to do that but thank you. You have shown me so much kindness. I am unworthy,” Evelyn speaks softly, eyes blinking back at him across the room. His expression falls slightly, his mask of stoicism slipping in favor of confusion.

“None is more worthy than you,” he is quick to respond and she feels her breath catch. By the look on his face, he hadn’t necessarily meant to say that either. Clearing his throat again, he looks down at the rug underneath his bare feet. “What I mean to say is that you have shown all of us, even strangers, such compassion and understanding. If I can do anything to help ease your pain, I will always do so.”

His stormy gaze flickers back up to her and for a brief moment, they merely stare at each other. Evelyn feels overwhelmed with gratitude and awe then, and a smile lights up her face before she can even think to stop it. She has a friend. Not even just Solas, she now realizes, but Varric and Cassandra too. They understand and she is so, so thankful. He watches her expression change and an answering smile plays at his lips.

“I… made another friend last night, in the Fade, that is,” Evelyn begins and watches the elf’s ears twitch. _Her friend_. “I believe you’ve already been acquainted. Wisdom stayed with me all night.”

His eyes widen and his smile grows. “Truly? You must tell me more of your encounter. I have known Wisdom a long time.” 

“Perhaps over breakfast?” She suggests and Solas inclines his head, the smile never leaving his face. She stands and begins walking towards the door, the elf quickly standing to follow on her heels.

“I’d like that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evelyn broods and laughs and then Redcliffe happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one probably won't make you cry, in fact it's slightly fluffy!

Before heading back into the Hinterlands, the Inquisition went north into the Storm Coast to investigate the rifts and a mercenary group in the region looking to ally themselves with the new organization. Her advisers had urged her to make the detour, but truthfully she was itching to hurry back and talk with her fellow mages instead. The “fast detour” ended up taking two whole weeks.

The Iron Bull had readily allied his Chargers with the Inquisition, but Evelyn was slightly unnerved by the man. He admitted to being a Hissrad, and she did not necessarily welcome the Qunari keeping tabs on her people. Nonetheless, she politely accepted the help because despite her wariness, the Inquisition was in dire need of assistance.

Before she knew it, she’d discovered Grey Warden artifacts, closed countless rifts, narrowly avoided a fight between a dragon and a giant, and ended up dueling the leader of the Blades of Hessarian.

When they finally make for the road again, leading down into the mountains that will eventually fall into the farmlands and forest, Evelyn embraces the cool weather and the rain. After having spent years in a Circle, she relished in the feeling of mist and rain on her skin. While her companions complain and mutter their grievances about the constant downpour, she raises her head skyward and lets the water soothe her soul.

She remembers the first time it rained when she and Mahanon escaped the Circle. They were encamped on the outskirts of Ostwick with the other rebels, surrounded by pine and oak. At first, they were alarmed at the sudden change in weather, but soon they were dancing and kicking mud at each other. They became soaked to the bone, their tattered mage’s robes rendered useless, but they reveled in it anyway. That night, they made love in their shared tent, unhurried in their affections, their skin as cold as ice. In the morning, both awoke with a sniffle and a sore throat but neither of them complained. They were free, after all.

The memory fades and she’s left in a daze on the top of her mount. The rain doesn’t feel the same as it did then. She’s not nearly as giddy with liberty and anxiety. Her hair clings to her neck and face, her armor and clothes beneath become completely soaked through but she doesn’t find it in herself to care.  

“You’re going to catch a cold like that, Kid,” Varric chides from his pony at the back of their party. She rolls her eyes at him.

“The rain feels good,” Evelyn admits and Sera scoffs at her while the Iron Bull gives her an appraising look.

“Yer crazy,” Sera quips and Evelyn merely shrugs. “Why would the rain feel good?”

“It feels like freedom,” the answer is simple. Solas glances at her with understanding in his gaze and Sera merely brushes her off.

“I swear yer almost as elfy as Elvhen Glory over ‘ere.”

Solas groans and begins a one-sided conversation with the archer while she sticks her fingers in her ears and begins chanting “la la la”. Evelyn silently decides to drop Sera back off at Haven after that.  Evelyn does like her, but she knows the elf does not and will not ever understand some things.

The return to Haven is slow and draining. The rain is gone, the sun filters through the trees, and the air feels revitalizing and new. Everyone’s mood improves the closer they get to the village, eager to return home and get a bite to eat at the tavern. Varric begins talk of creating a book club and Cassandra is surprisingly warm to the idea. Even Blackwall and Solas seem interested, and the lot begin discussions about the genre and length of the book in detail. Evelyn is content to listen, for now. She has read most of the books Varric and Cassandra are listing off, seeing as there was little else to do while stuck in the Circle. Her and Mahanon’s favorites were always the stories of adventure. They dreamed of a life outside of the Circle, seeing the world and making new friends along the way. It’s odd to think of the adventure she is on now. How wrong it is without Mahanon by her side.

Sera must have taken notice of her gloomy thoughts because the next thing Evelyn knows, there’s a thick blob of mud trailing down her neck and into her clothes. The mage gasps, the party freezes in shock and goes deathly silent, while Sera begins giggling. “That’s for gettin’ all mopey and stuff.”

Something in Evelyn breaks. Her body shakes at first as she looks down in astonishment to her now dirtied armor. Incredulous laughter bursts forth from her chest and she looks up to the mischievous elf with a promise in her eyes. “Oh, _you don’t even know_ what you’ve started.”

“Herald,” Cassandra starts worriedly but she’s already off the saddle and darting to the pile of mud where Sera is. She scoops up an armful and unceremoniously dumps it over the archer. The elf is screeching with glee now, shrieking and running from the mage as she begins throwing blobs of mud in earnest.

“That’s quite an arm you got there, Kid!” Varric calls and of course he’s now her next target. He squawks and flees the scene while Blackwall and the Iron Bull bellow out a full-bodied laugh. Cassandra continues to watch in astonishment by Solas, his own mouth upturned in a sort of half-smile at their antics.

Blackwall and Sera team up and chase after the Herald, Varric seems to forgive Evelyn’s earlier attack and decides to join her team as they declare war. The Iron Bull and the Chargers even manage to get involved and soon the entire party is dirtied and squealing with laughter and surprise. Cassandra scoffs at the group while Solas steps over to Evelyn, now laying back in the mud. Her hair is a mess, her cheeks are smeared with the wet dirt and she thinks she has never looked more undignified. Strange how much she cannot bring herself to care.

“Come now, Evelyn, I believe it’s time you declare peace,” Solas says sarcastically with a smirk, coolly offering a hand down to her as he leans over, blocking the sunlight. A devilish smirk is her answer as she grabs his hand and tugs him down. He winds up in a heap beside her in the mud, his clothes now thoroughly soiled.

“Ha! Shows him right!” Sera giggles before the Iron Bull and Krem toss another handful of mud at the elf.

Evelyn is laughing so hard, tears stream down her face as she turns to Solas. There’s an apology somewhere in her expression but she’s positively delighted to see him so disheveled. The unamused expression on his face is the funniest thing she has seen in a long time. Her mirth must have some sort of effect on him, for his stern façade cracks before her eyes and he lets out a startled laugh.

Before she can do anything, Solas utilizes his magic and launches a full-scale attack on her. If she was a mess before, she’s a wreck now as the mud coats her from head to toe. She shrieks and tries to scramble away but he is relentless in his pursuit.

“Sera and Blackwall, I declare peace between us so long as you ally with me against this evil man!” Evelyn shouts to the group and suddenly her other companions are there, tossing mud and giggling and thoroughly soiling the party.

They continue until they all lay in the mud, tired and still stifling laughter. Cassandra finally joins them, shoving and pushing the lot of them towards the nearest stream. It has been far too long since she has laughed like that.

 

* * *

 

The return to Haven feels lighter, like a weight has been lifted from her chest. The people rejoice in their return, meeting them at the gates and waving flowers and flags. Her advisers are eager to speak to her again, but Evelyn yearns to hurry into Redcliffe.

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s terrified of facing Fiona again. The last of the rebels have taken refuge in Redcliffe and Evelyn cannot help but wonder what they may think of her now that she has joined with the Inquisition. After the Conclave disaster, their numbers dwindled so much that they likely couldn’t last much longer against the Templars. She would do everything in her power to stop this war and to keep them safe.

Varric, Sera, Blackwall, and the Iron Bull immediately made for the tavern while Cassandra retreated for the Chantry with Leliana and Josephine. Cullen remained in front of the Herald, thumbing the pommel of his sword while Solas stood firmly beside her.

“Herald, if I might have a moment of your time?” Commander Cullen asked carefully, eyeing the elf beside her suspiciously. “Alone?”

She really, really does not want to be alone with a Templar. Even though he’d supposedly left the order, she can’t disassociate the man from the monsters who had oppressed her and her kind for so many years. Yet, she was the Herald of Andraste to the Inquisition and he led their armies. She was an adult, she needed to do this.

“Yes, Commander,” Evelyn nods her consent. Solas bows to them, his eyes boring into hers as if to relay a message between them before he disappears back towards his cabin.

“Leliana has spoken to me a bit about… the Ostwick Circle. I – ” Cullen starts, muttering under his breath and shifting on his feet uncomfortably. “Maker, I’m bad at this.”

“As if I’m any better?” Evelyn jokes but it falls a bit flat. Cullen looks down at her, his golden eyes softer than before.

“I was tortured by blood mages at Kinlock Hold. I don’t know if anyone has spoken about it with you, but it has haunted me for years. The trauma is there, every day, and I… was not a good man in Kirkwall. I thought myself above the other Templars because I did not abuse any mages, yet I let the abuse happen all because of my fear. I-I’m sorry, Herald,” Cullen finishes softly and there’s something vulnerable in his eyes that makes her somewhat less wary. She relaxes her stance and doesn’t say anything for a moment. He did allow the abuse to happen, that was something she would never be able to forget, but trauma is something she lives with daily.

“I understand, Commander. I bear no good will for the Templars, I’m sorry but I can’t. They… used me. Beat me, hurt me and my friends. But perhaps we’re more alike than we think,” Evelyn says, offering a careful smile. He surprises her by returning the gesture. “I’m sorry about what you went through. It truly sounds awful.”

Cullen waves dismissively, his cheeks flushing. “Please, Herald, I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ve come to terms with it now. The abuses of the Templars have been ongoing for years. It’s why I left the order. You have every right to be angry and suspicious, I’m just sorry. I will try to do better, Herald.”

To her own astonishment, she believes him. There’s a sincerity to his words, in his eyes, and she is moved. If he has truly left the order behind him, if he makes an effort to understand the mages and their plight, maybe they could be on good terms after all. “Thank you, Commander.”

He nods his head once and turns back to his troops. “I should really get back to them. They can barely parry a strike.”

Evelyn catches a glimpse of the army, sparring clumsily. She cannot help the taunt that falls from her lips, “Sir, yes, sir!” 

The Commander gives her a look and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle. They’ll be okay.

 

* * *

 

She knows she shouldn’t be here. It is wrong, it is _sick_. By the sweat on Dorian’s forehead, she can see he feels much the same. Everything is… broken, red, blighted. When Evelyn finds her allies, no – her friends, she loses herself.

Cassandra is on her knees begging to the Maker within a cell when the Herald spots her. The poor woman, dark eyes now a distinctive red and skin mottled with lyrium, is in disbelief when she sees her. Evelyn says nothing as she frees the Seeker from her cell and continues down the dark and destroyed hallway.

When they enter another corridor, Dorian reaches for her, eyes somber. He points the way to another cell at the end of the dank and putrid room and Evelyn loses all the breath in her lungs. Solas is there, calmly sitting with his back against the wall and legs crossed. His eyes are closed, as if he were sleeping peacefully or meditating and yet surrounding him is an unmistakable aura of red. He’s been poisoned beyond repair, nothing more than skin and bones.

“Solas?” Evelyn dares to speak, her voice tinged with horror. The apostate’s eyes flash open and all at once, he rushes towards the bars of his cell. His hands clasp the bars, knuckles white, his reddened gaze boring into her own.

“You’re alive?” He asks incredulously, so unlike his usually stoic demeanor. “I saw you die!”

Evelyn nods quickly, fumbling for the keys she picked off the guard she and Dorian killed in the last room they cleared. Without another moment of hesitation, she unlocks his cage, the cell swinging open with a resounding _clank_ against the stone walls.

“Dorian disrupted the spell and we somehow ended up forward through time,” she explains hurriedly, nervously hovering around the poor elf as he finally walks free of the cell. It is unnerving seeing him and Cassandra like this. They had been so strong before and now their bodies are mere shells of what they were.

“This means you can be sent back. None of this will come to pass,” Solas says almost excitedly. Evelyn jolts at the sudden hand on her shoulder, Solas’s fingers grasping firmly. When she looks up into his eyes she sees something akin to hope. Her heart breaks for him then, just what had he endured while locked away in that cell?

Solas takes up arms and joins them in battle as they make their way upstairs to Alexius’s quarters. They find and rescue Leliana from the torture chambers and she fights with such determination that Evelyn finds awe-inspiring. The spymaster tells her that everyone outside of this castle had died in the battles to follow. The Commander was the first to fall, followed by the Chargers and even the Red Jennies. Josephine had been hunted down and murdered along with Vivienne and Blackwall and Evelyn had been utterly powerless to stop any of it.

As they furiously fight their way to find the amulet, Evelyn is stunned as Solas shoves her behind him, throws himself in harm’s way to protect her. And the _touching_ is something entirely new. The apostate doesn’t hesitate in guiding her with a hand on her back, grasping her shoulder, even clutching at her wrist at one point. Dorian eyes the elf suspiciously but Evelyn doesn’t bother putting a stop to it. She will give him whatever comfort he needs. This had been her fault anyway and she would do anything to prevent this twisted world from happening.

“Go! We’ll hold them off,” Leliana insists once they reach Alexius’s chambers. Dorian has already found the amulet and is working to unleash the strange time magic. Demons have swarmed into the castle, and Solas is currently pushing the Herald ahead.

“No, I cannot leave you!” Evelyn argues back, tears threatening to spill as she dodges the apostate’s surprisingly strong grip.

“Go so that this will never come to pass, _falon_. We do this for you, please just _go_ ,” Solas urges her, his tone thick with grief. Before Evelyn can even think twice about it, she throws her arms around the bony mage. Tears spill over her cheeks and onto his roughspun tunic as she squeezes probably too hard.

“I’m so sorry, my friend,” Evelyn whispers and suddenly she feels his arms tighten around her waist as he buries his face in the crook of her neck. They remain for a few moments before she reluctantly pulls away. She gives him and the others one last determined look and hurries to Dorian’s side as the doors burst open.

Evelyn listens to the sounds of screaming demons, of blood spatter hitting the walls, of arrows flying and swords slicing and magic casting. Yet she cannot make herself look. Dorian’s sweat drips down his forehead as he finally manages to make the amulet do something. A green rift opens before them, large and oozing with Fade magic. When Evelyn dares to cast one last look to her friends, she wishes she didn’t. Cassandra lies dead in a pool of her own blood, Leliana is cut in two and Solas’s limp corpse is being tossed into the air.

Dorian yanks her through the rift as she screams.

 

* * *

 

Evelyn Lavellan doesn’t speak much. After briefing the Inquisition and King Alistair on what has happened and directing the mages to Haven, she refuses to open her mouth anymore. All she can see is Cassandra with her eyes staring open into nothing. Leliana’s spilled intestines lining the floor. Solas, the kindly mage who had comforted her so tenderly, being thrown about like a ragdoll.

She excuses herself from the rest of the Inquisition and loses her breakfast into a bush. Her vision wanes and her mind conjures images of Mahanon lying limp and broken on the ground at the Conclave. It was too much.

How strange that she had seen so much death and yet there were only a few deaths that truly bothered her. She herself had taken countless lives now after joining the Inquisition. It did not matter that they wanted her dead or that they had been doing wrong, she had been a harbinger of death. How could she possibly justify it?

They are only a few hours out from Haven now and Evelyn knows she needs to return to the others but she can’t. She can’t look at Cassandra or Solas or even Cullen knowing what had happened to them. Death. Torture. Suffering. She could not let this happen, she could never let this come to pass.

“Herald?” Solas calls for her and she stiffens immediately at the title.

“I’m over here,” she answers, her voice stronger than she felt. The forest is misty and cool, dewy leaves shrouding her from the others on the path ahead. Solas weaves his way around the oak and pine, his eyes scanning across the trees until he spots her leaning against the bark of a large tree. She feels too weak to stand on her own just yet.

“Are you well?” He questions carefully, removing his staff and conjuring a ball of healing light to his palm. Evelyn waves him off and shrugs, looking down at the dirt beneath her boots. She startles when he places his waterskin in her palm and gives her a meaningful look. “You’re sick.”

“I’m fine,” she argues but takes the waterskin nevertheless. It’s a simple thing to take a swig of the icy water and wash away the taste of sick. She takes another drink and gives him an apologetic look as she passes the waterskin back. “I’m sorry I forgot mine, I was perhaps a bit distracted.”

“Of course,” Solas says, strapping the pouch back to his belt and offering a hand. Evelyn woozily moves to stand without the aid of the tree and promptly begins to tilt into Solas’s offered hand. He steadies her with a strong grip to her arm and places her hand in the crook of his elbow. “I’ve got you.”

The cool air feels like a balm against her feverish skin as they make their way back to the path. Evelyn doesn’t even know what to say. He feels solid, healthy beneath her hand as he helps guide her. He’s strong and most definitely not poisoned with red lyrium but still she cannot un-see him bathed in the blighted aura of red, struggling to remain calm, clutching at her almost desperately as they fight.

“Dorian told me what happened,” he begins softly and Evelyn can’t contain the flinch. Her fingers tighten against his arm and he places a calming hand over her own. “I’m sorry you had to see such a thing, Evelyn.”

“I….” the mage starts to speak but she cannot find the words. With a shake of her head, she scoffs at her own ridiculousness and looks determinedly ahead. “I won’t _ever_ let that happen to you. I would die fighting before seeing such a thing come to pass again. That, I promise.”

Solas seems taken aback by her words, the conviction in her tone. He doesn’t say anything for a moment but she feels his gaze boring into her. Perhaps he was not used to having friends (on this side of the veil, at least).

“Thank you,” he says and there is an earnestness in his voice that endears him to her even more. She should perhaps promise the same to Cassandra and the others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falon - Friend


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Haven happens and Evelyn is visited by a certain apostate in the Fade.

Even her own heart feels lighter when the Breach is finally sealed shut. The mages all rejoice at once, the Inquisition quick to throw an impromptu party in the little town of Haven. There are bards singing, townsfolk dancing, flagons of mead being broken open and people are happy; actually, truly relieved.

It is surprisingly easy for the Herald to accept a dance from Dorian. The two had taken a quick liking to each other on the journey into Haven. They offer friendly flirtations and engage in academic debates somewhat regularly now. He sees in her a dire need of friendship and she sees much the same in him. It takes the other members of the Inquisition a bit longer to trust the Tevinter mage, especially Solas, but for the most part everyone mostly gets along. Excluding Vivienne and Sera, of course.

Solas watches the dancing couples from the sidelines with his hands clasped calmly behind his back. Sera engages Blackwall in an arm-wrestling match while the Iron Bull puts the both of them to shame. Vivienne watches the rowdy Fereldens with a hint of distaste in her expression with Josephine and Leliana. As Dorian twirls her around expertly, she even thinks she spots the Commander tapping his foot on the side and smiling at the people’s happiness while Cassandra longingly gazes at the crowd beside him.

It is too soon when their revelry is interrupted.

A spirit inhabiting a human’s body appears at the gates of Haven warning of an attack. The advisers are wary of trusting him but there’s something intimately familiar about the spirit that gives Evelyn pause. She trusts him.

Chaos reigns upon Haven not an hour after the dancing has come to an abrupt end. The citizens are evacuated, Evelyn saves as many people as she can including Adan, Minaeve, and Flissa. She casts her magic frantically, holding barriers over the people who cannot fight as they make for the Chantry, throwing healing spells to the wounded, sending shards of ice and waves of fire to the red templars who have already breached the gates.

They’re surrounded, their only hope a tiny path leading into the mountains. They need time and she will give it to them.

“No!” Cullen speaks firmly, but she is the Herald of Andraste and this is her purpose. She’d been waiting to die for months now.

“Cullen, it is necessary. Let me go,” Evelyn insists. The dragon shrieks outside and a stream of fire engulfs the roof of the Chantry. Cullen blanches at that, staring down at her with wary, golden eyes. There is guilt in the thin line of his mouth, hard-lined acceptance in his expression.

“Maker be with you, Herald,” the Commander relents and she reaches out and squeezes his arm once before turning and bursting out of the Chantry. She feels Solas’s magic behind her, casting a barrier over her form. They move swiftly, the two mages accompanied by Blackwall and the spirit of Compassion, Cole.

Evelyn Lavellan will likely die today. She realizes this as she fights, furious and determined. Six months she has waited for this, has thrown herself into the fray and she is ready. When it is time to bury Haven, to launch the trebuchets and face the monster who has done this all, she doesn’t hesitate to separate from her group when dragon fire cuts her way off from them. She knows they will make it safely out.

The Herald of Andraste fights fiercely and _she is ready_. “I’m coming, Mal,” she breathes as she finally meets Corypheus.

 

* * *

 

_“I love you,” a whisper on the wind, his voice so soft and full of promises yet left unfulfilled. They’re to sail off to Rivain, where an elf and a human can live happily together without much judgment. Their magic could be used freely in such a place, they could be happy together. Evelyn would start a job as a healer, Mahanon would likely sign on as a mercenary._

_They’d try to start a family. Maybe. It was not something either had ever dared to entertain. In the Circle, they would be lucky to catch a moment to themselves, the thought of a mage becoming pregnant a nightmare in such a place. Yet it was something she could see Mal longing for, a certain glimmer in his brown eyes that betrayed his thoughts on such a matter._

_When they had finally escaped, he was the first to suggest the idea. Evelyn wasn’t sure, at first, if it was wise. They were on the run, rebels even, and they could not guarantee their child would be safe. Yet the way Mal spoke of a little girl or boy with his auburn hair and her doe eyes won her over in the end. Their love would endure. They would try._

_First the Conclave, and then, only then, they were free to do as they please. Their time as revolutionaries would end, there could be peace. Happiness even._

But all that was gone now, wasn’t it? It’s not real. He’s gone.

How cruel, how unbelievably heartless her fate had been. This was the Fade, this was not real and his voice on the wind was just another figment of her imagination or a demon come to taunt her. The moment she realizes this, it takes her a second to breathe, to reign in her bottomless sorrow. Her heart feels constricted in her chest. Her hands shake, her eyes squeeze shut.

Wisdom isn’t there, a normally soothing yet ethereal presence to help ground her. Her feelings were on full display here in the Fade. Her thoughts, her memories, her hope, her despair laid bare for all curious spirits and somniari alike to see. She expects a visit from the Inquisition’s own resident Fade-Walker and ah – yes, there he is.

Solas strolls calmly through her little nook of the Fade, a library that resembles the one she’d come to know intimately in the Circle. Her small haven from the Templars. Where she first laid eyes on Mahanon. _No, stop_.

“You could feel it?” Evelyn asks in greeting, her own anxiety swarming her in an aura of self-loathing she knows Solas can see, can very likely feel. The Fade always reflects emotions more strongly.

“Yes, I hope it’s alright to intrude,” Solas replies, almost unsure of his place. She can feel it, a question left hanging around them. _Am I welcome here_?

“Of course, Solas. I’m just sorry I’m so loud,” she mutters with a shake of her head as the apostate leans back against a bookshelf, crossing his arms as he regards the area.

“This is the Ostwick Circle?” He asks in confusion. Yes, she imagines it is strange that such a place has become her refuge in the Fade.

“It is. The Templars didn’t bother me much here. I spent an inordinate amount of time lost in a book in this very alcove,” the mage explains almost wistfully, waving to the stack of books on the table beside her. Solas takes a moment to peer at the titles, some of her favorites, before reaching for a book and plopping on a chair across from her.

“Yes, I think I can understand.” He could probably feel the memories, the calm, the excitement of her being lost in a story, the look in Mal’s eyes when he first told her how he felt in this very room. _Stop_.

Evelyn looks down at the book in her lap, _The Book of Shartan_ , one of Mahanon’s favorites. “Do you want to talk about him?”

The question is a surprise. She doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t even know if she wants to. Her life has been a whirlwind ever since he died and there had been no time to reflect on the years she had spent with him. It was jarring to have Mal as a constant presence for most of her adult life and then to suddenly lose him was just... indescribable. It is as if her very soul has been ripped in half.  

“Yes… I think I do,” Evelyn decides, looking up at Solas with a small smile. No one had really offered before. Her grief was a thing too raw, too uncomfortable for the others. It is kind of him to offer his ears, his time, to hear her speak of the one person she had loved so wholly with her entire heart.

“How did you meet?” Solas begins softly, leaning back into his chair and depositing the book back on the table.

“I was not quite thirteen when he was brought here. He was a Dalish elf who came into his magic later than his peers. There were already a few mages in his clan and he was sent away, wandering alone as a fourteen-year-old boy. He was discovered by the Templars soon enough and we met here in this very spot,” she says gently, eyes full of warmth as she takes in the library. Particularly, the little carving of his name beside hers on the bookshelf. “He was sent here by the First Enchanter to read more about human culture. He found me sitting alone, reading, and made some comment about my ears. I invited him to sit with me, and, well the rest is history.”

“It is barbaric that the Dalish would cast aside a child like that,” Solas comments, his tone thick with poorly-masked disdain. Evelyn is a bit surprised by his reaction but nods her head anyway. The elf merely shakes his head and changes the subject, “It is surprising that you found love in such a place.”

“Yes, well, it stuck with Mal for a long time. He felt like his people abandoned him.” Evelyn remembers holding his hand, promising that he would never be alone again. She takes a deep breath and continues. “He taught me a few Dalish phrases and said my accent was terrible. I helped him to ward off demons. He was never very good with spirits.”

“What drew you to each other?” Solas wonders, peering into her eyes curiously. “Forgive me, but I cannot help but be surprised. It is not often a member of the Dalish falls in love with a human.”

“Ah, I see. You wish to know how an elf could fall in love with a dirty human?” Evelyn teases, but her tone is not unkind. Mal and her had been given a lot of grief over the years for their relationship. “Are you saying my charming personality isn’t enough to distract from my homely appearance?”

Solas appears to fight back a sigh and gives her a stern look. “You are most certainly _not_ homely, Evelyn. That wasn’t what I meant.”

The mage chuckles lightly and cocks her head. “Sweet-talker, that’s the nicest compliment I’ve yet to receive.”

Her teasing must be confusing the poor man but he takes it in stride and offers a small smile at her antics. Finally, she relents and says, “I know what you mean, I’m just messing around. Honestly, we’ve been questioned about our relationship more than once. The Chantry wouldn’t even marry us and we had no choice but to go to the Dalish. No human men have taken us seriously in the past, and I’ve been harassed many times before. Even the elves gave Mal shit for being with a wide, _shemlen_ woman.”

“That is unfair but I cannot say I’m not surprised,” Solas comments ruefully. Evelyn merely shrugs it off. She has never once cared for their opinions and it was a long time ago now.

“He said I was beautiful and I thought he was the most handsome man I’ve ever met. It was enough,” her voice is thick with emotion that she cannot hide and Solas’s stormy, gray eyes soften as he looks upon her.

“I admire your strength throughout this, Evelyn,” he states and it elicits a rueful sigh from her.

“I cannot say I understand why you think that. I’ve shed more tears than I ever have before in my life and I can barely contain my sorrow most days. Yet it means a lot to hear you say that,” she admits so quietly if he were human he likely wouldn’t hear her. She looks down to her hands, calloused and small compared to how large Mal’s were beside her own. There is little she wouldn’t do to feel his touch again. Those big, strong, tanned hands wrapping around her waist, roaming her body. If she closes her eyes she can almost pretend he’s there.

“You have a strong spirit, it does not make you weak to feel emotion. It makes you… alive,” Solas tries to explain but his voice trails off near the end as if he were lost in thought. Evelyn doesn’t look up from her hands, too suddenly sorrowful to look upon her fellow mage. She wishes it were Mahanon sitting there across from her, just as they had done in the Circle. They would exchange playful and longing looks to each other with their noses buried deep in books. Her heart would pound against her chest, her throat would feel tight, and she’d shiver whenever she felt his boot knock into her feet. How long ago had it been now?

Magic permeates the air around her and she takes a breath before the library fades away, the chairs beneath them dissipate. Solas catches her before she falls, steadying her until she’s standing firmly beside him again as the scene finally changes. They’re in a lush, green forest now. The sun is beating down through the trees, a brook babbles away to the side of them, and the serenity forces a feeling of calm and peace into her being.

Evelyn gasps as she takes in their new surroundings. The glimmering trees, the feeling of soft earth beneath her feet leaves her positively enchanted. When she looks back to Solas she finds him smiling gently at his handiwork.

“Where are we?” She questions, voice full of wonder as she twirls around.

“This is where I was born,” the mage speaks quietly, wistfully. Evelyn gazes up at him, curious to finally hear about the mysterious apostate’s life before the Inquisition. “I used to come here when I was younger for solitude.”

“I find it hard to imagine you as a child,” she says with a quirk to her lips. Solas shrugs and his smile grows.

“I was a strong-willed, curious and stubborn child. Quite wild in my heyday.” She seriously cannot picture it, perhaps the curious part, but not the wild one.

“Are you sure you weren’t always bald and lecturing about the Fade?” Evelyn continues her teasing and stifles back a chuckle at the thought of a little, bald elf child in Solas’s usual garb brooding and convening with spirits.

“I will have you know that I am perfectly capable of sporting a full head of hair. When I was a youth, my hair fell longer than yours,” Solas admits, strolling across from her to lean against a tree. He crosses his arms and watches her face intently.

“ _Really_?” Evelyn demands in shock, her expression almost comical as she tries to imagine just what that looked like.

“Is it truly so surprising that I was young at one point?”

“You’re still young now, aren’t you? You cannot be that old,” she muses and his eyes crinkle with mirth as he looks down at his feet.

“If only you knew,” he murmurs and she swiftly moves across the forest to face him. She peers up at his face, carefully inspecting each feature for fine lines and wrinkles. His eyes are blown rather wide and he stills under her scrutiny. His lips are full and lightly parted, his normally straight brows now lifted. She etches the little crease on his forehead into her mind, the dip in his chin, the jut of his strong jawline, the look of astonishment in his almond eyes. He’s watching her watch him almost tenderly and the moment she realizes this, she moves backward and clears her throat.

“Yes, ah – just as I suspected. Not a wrinkle in sight. You must tell me your secrets,” Evelyn jests nervously, her heart fluttering excitedly. It’s confusing. Not right.

She watches Solas’s brows furrow as if he, too, were confused. The apostate clears his throat and looks back to the side, over the wide expanse of endless greenery and woodlands. “An apostate never tells his secrets.”

“It’s blood magic, isn’t it?” Evelyn persists in her banter, shaking off the sudden wave of awkwardness she feels after invading his personal space. “Perhaps blood sacrifice? Or maybe licking hallucinogenic toads with life-sustaining properties?”

Solas snorts and she grins broadly at his reaction. Her heart continues its traitorous fluttering as he watches her with those gentle eyes. “Nothing so dire, I assure you.”

“I’ll get an answer out of you yet, Apostate,” Evelyn says with a laugh, letting her arms falls to her sides as she gazes in wonder once more at the magical forest. “I’m not getting any younger, after all. Us humans have less luck in the genetic lottery when it comes to aging.”

Solas’s eyes are cast downward in contemplation when she turns back to him. The uncertainty he feels coats her own aura, and it’s slightly alarming. “Solas?”

“I believe it’s time for you to wake, my friend.”

He steps closer, gazing down at her with furrowed brows. “What’s wrong?”

“You were badly injured in the attack on Haven,” he explains immediately and she sucks in a harsh breath as the memories come flooding back to her. The Templars, Corypheus, the innocents caught in the fighting. Haven has fallen.

“ _Oh_ ,” Evelyn stutters out, sucking in a ragged breath. “How long?”

“You’ve been asleep for a day now. I’ve healed most of your injuries, but we must move on. It’s time for you to _wake up_.”

She jolts awake in a bedroll, tightly wrapped in bandages across her chest and abdomen, sweating and shivering as she startles Mother Giselle beside her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skyhold, a family reunion, and some Solas POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like!

Solas takes them to Skyhold and it is more than Evelyn ever dared to hope for. There is more than enough room for everyone, space for the mages to claim, supplies and shelter for the refugees, and she is utterly entranced.

Evelyn spends the majority of her spare time in the gardens, nursing the dead plants back to life and planting her own healing herbs alongside the decorative vines and roses. It takes her off guard, how well she can tend to a plant, to till the soil, to work the land. The smell of dewy grass, rich soil and sunshine reminds her faintly of a time when she wasn’t trapped behind thick, stone walls and a sense of nostalgia warms her to the little garden even more.

Josephine finds her there, weeks after they had first arrived in Skyhold, watering the elfroot with a pail instead of utilizing her magic. The garden is full to bursting with life and activity now, thanks to her hard efforts. Children play in the grass and roll in the mud, couples wander through the private veranda, the people find peace across the way in the Chantry and she is content.

“Inquisitor, if I might have a moment of your time?” Josephine calls for her, clipboard in hand and an uneasy expression in her dark eyes. She’d almost forgotten her newest title. The advisers had urged her into the new role, a role she was entirely too uncomfortable with and yet she took it knowing she did not have much of a choice.

“Yes, of course,” Evelyn acquiesces, calmly setting the watering pail down and brushing off the dirt from her knees. The uneasiness that seems to emanate from the diplomat sends a spike of alarm up her spine. It is not often that Josephine is unsettled by something.

“There are visitors in the war room looking for you. They claim to be from House Trevelyan,” the adviser finally speaks and all the breath is stolen from her lungs. Her family?

The Inquisitor doesn’t speak for a long moment. Josephine is hovering anxiously beside her, but Evelyn cannot find the words. They had deposited her in a Circle at barely eleven years old, what could they possibly want with her?

“I… do not know what to say. What do they want?”

“You see, Inquisitor, they did not really say. They requested your presence immediately,” she explains quickly, the clipboard swinging down to her side.

“I shall go then. Will my advisers be present?” Evelyn wonders aloud, clasping her hands behind her back to prevent herself from twiddling her thumbs as they hurry inside of the Great Hall.

“Yes, the entire Inner Circle has been summoned.”

 _Terrific_ , Evelyn thinks sarcastically, loathe to experience any sort of tense family gathering beside her newest friends and colleagues. What would they think of her after this?

They approach the war room quickly and all of her nerves are shot. Her back is stiff as a board, her breath comes too quickly, unsure of just what awaited her on the other side of the door. “Announcing Inquisitor Evelyn Lavellan, Herald of Andraste.”

The door opens and there stands the entire Inner Circle on one side of the room and her father, Maxwell Trevelyan, standing curtly beside her younger brother, James. She cannot look away. Her father has greyed much over the years, but the harsh beadiness of his dark eyes remains. She did not even recognize her brother. She had last seen him when he was nine and now he was a man, standing tall and regal.

“Is it Lavellan, now? That’s new,” her father immediately comments distastefully and it is then that she realizes this would not be pleasant at all.

“Yes, Father, that was my late husband’s name,” Evelyn responds swiftly, sharply. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

James shifts uncomfortably on his feet, his eyes softer when they look upon her compared to her father. The elder Trevelyan appears to blanch at her response, his mustache twitching. “I don’t recall giving you permission to marry.”

“That’s funny, I don’t recall asking your permission. It’s almost like you had nothing to do with my life the moment you shipped me off to the Templars,” the mage is quick to respond, bitterness seeping into her tone. She feels her companions’ eyes on her, their trepidation and concern, and she silently chides herself for her childishness. This was not the time for her bitter familial confrontation. “Again I ask, to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”

James clears his throat, nudging their father with his elbow before sharing a look with Evelyn. “We come to propose an alliance with the Inquisition, Sister.”

“And what would we have to gain with such an alliance?” Evelyn muses calmly, relaxing her stance and gazing intently at her father. The bitterness is still there, her unease and her father’s contempt, but she is hesitant to acknowledge it much longer.

“We offer the Inquisition free roam of our lands and financial assistance. Guards if need be,” James speaks sincerely, his voice strong and polite. It is jarring to see her brother like this.

“What would the Trevelyans gain from such an alliance?” Leliana asks from her side, the spymaster’s eyes narrowing on the patriarch.

“There are demons on our lands,” Maxwell finally speaks, albeit exasperated and cold. “It is only your magic that can rid of them, Herald.”

So, there it is. Her family do not wish to ally with their organization out of the good of their hearts, they only wish to use her. Nonetheless, it is her job to seal the rifts and she will do what she must. Before she can speak, her father narrows his eyes upon Solas, Sera, and even the Iron Bull.

“I see the Inquisition will let just about anyone in,” her father says with a sneer. The look her brother gives their father then would be comical if her pulse weren’t thundering in her own ears.

“And just what does that mean, Father?” She wonders coolly. Let him say it and she will be done with him. Her father glares back at her, his eyes full to bursting with disappointment and loathing.

“I merely am surprised that my own daughter would so readily ally herself with knife-ears and barbarians. Then again, it’s not surprising after hearing of your little dalliance with that dead elf of yours – ”

“ _Father_!” James hisses between his teeth. Evelyn feels everyone’s eyes on her, awaiting her response, and she wishes more than anything that she were alone. She is hurt and she is angry but she will not let this man, this hateful man who threw away any relationship he could have had with his own daughter, get the better of her. The Inquisitor sucks in a shaky breath, fists clenched against her sides as she peers at the man she once regarded as her father.

“You will never, ever refer to my friends in such a manner again. I do not tolerate such bigotry. You are in my people’s fortress, after all. I refuse to listen to you speak ill of my husband, you have absolutely no right. I will close the rifts on your lands, as is my duty, but as far as I am concerned I owe you nothing. You are no Father of mine. You will leave Skyhold within the hour or I will have you forcefully removed,” Evelyn speaks firmly, seriously, dare she think even powerfully. Even her father’s eyes widen at her declaration. She straightens her back and cranes her neck slightly before finishing, “Oh, yes, and I expect a hefty donation to our coffers for our generosity. You are dismissed.”

Josephine opens the door to the war room then, holding it open expectantly while the Commander, broad and large, moves to guide the Trevelyans out. Her brother gives her an apologetic look as he moves to leave. “James, if I may speak to you?”

He seems surprised by the request, the younger man looking down at her with wide, blue eyes that remind her of their mother. James Trevelyan nods once and she directs him to meet her in the gardens before she regards her companions. Her father leaves without another word.

“I apologize for that display,” Evelyn says nervously, looking up at Sera smirking and Varric chuckling. Solas has a pleased look in his stormy eyes, Cassandra looks much the same. Vivienne nods her head coolly but the approval is clear even in her calculating eyes.

“That was badass, Kid,” Varric quips and the Iron Bull and Blackwall speak their agreements.

“Seriously, you put that old, noble shite right in his place. Stone-cold, quizzy,” Sera says with a giggle, throwing an arm around her shoulders and the gesture is comforting. Evelyn puts a companionable arm around the elf’s waist and smiles at her friends.

"Maker, I hope so,” she mutters and Dorian sidles up to her then with a smirk on his lips and a twitch to his finely groomed mustache.

“I must say, if I ever need to face my own father, I should bring you with me,” the Tevinter mage notes with a nudge to her side. Evelyn grins at the mage and promises to do so should the need arise.

“Your brother may be reasonable yet, Inquisitor,” Solas reminds her gently and she nods her agreements.

“I suppose that’s true. I’ll let you guys know how that goes. Thank you for supporting me,” Evelyn says softly, sincerely, with a broader smile to her friends.

Sera reluctantly lets her go, and Evelyn is somewhat nervous to face him alone. It had been so long since she had seen him, had played with him. They were only children when she’d been ripped away from her family. Before, they were as thick as thieves. She hopes there is still some part of that little boy left.

“James,” Evelyn calls once she’s reached the garden. She finds him sitting serenely beneath the trellis, gazing around at the lush greenery. He looks up then, his blue eyes twinkling with wonder.

“Hello, Evie,” he says with a smile, and her heart flips at the nickname. Mahanon had called her that. James did too, once upon a time. A smile forms on her own lips and soon he is standing and throwing his arms around her. She doesn’t hesitate to return the embrace.

“Oh, James, you’re so tall now!” Evelyn laughs, squeezing her younger brother. He pulls away, looking at her in wonder.

“Me? Look at you! You were terrifying in there, I’ve never seen Father so intimidated. Show’s him right,” her brother shakes his head at the situation, stifling a laugh as he watches her.

“That was my Inquisitor voice. The advisers have been teaching me,” she admits with a laugh.

“Maker, I can’t believe my own sister is the Inquisitor; the Herald of Andraste!”

She shrugs, leading him further into the gardens as they stroll slowly on the dirt path. “Well, it hasn’t been easy.”

She senses her brother’s discomfort then and looks up to find him sadly shuffling his feet. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband. It’s been… weird, hearing about you becoming the Herald and then the Inquisitor and then finding out you were married. I didn’t even have time to really process it.”

“Neither have I,” Evelyn admits quietly, wishing Mahanon was here more than anything. James would have liked him. They would have been the best of friends. Brothers.

“Of course,” James says solemnly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder as they continue to walk. His presence is like a balm to her soul. However small, it was a comfort to realize that she still had some small semblance of a family left.

“Did you ever end up joining the Templars?” She changes the subject then, curious and altogether worried about just what he had been up to all these years. The man laughs and shakes his head firmly.

“Oh, Maker, _no_. I was – perhaps – really resentful after you were taken to the Circle. I refused to enlist and Father and I had a bit of a strained relationship ever since. I’m his only son and the heir though, so there wasn’t much he could do about it. I thought about escaping the Trevelyan name altogether, maybe joining the Wardens, but Mother reminded me that I could do better as the leader of the clan once Father was dead. So, here we are,” he explained quickly and Evelyn was left feeling rather touched at the sentiment. He had missed her, had refused to do the familial duty of joining the Chantry. Perhaps there was hope for his future.

“Brother,” Evelyn begins seriously, pausing in her steps to look up at him. “You will always have a place in the Inquisition, should you wish to join. Father may not be welcome, but you’re still my little brother and I will always welcome you with open arms.”

It was James’s turn to look flustered, his eyes full of warmth as he clasped his hand on her shoulder again. “It’s good to hear you say that, Evie. I’ll consider the offer, but for now I should probably get back to Ostwick and calm Father down.”

She nods her head once in understanding and embraces her brother once more before he reluctantly has to depart. He promises to write and once he walks through the gates to join their Father, Evelyn keenly feels the loneliness that festers deep within her heart as he leaves. She feels Mahanon’s absence, the family she had been robbed of, the incessant voice in her head telling her that she was fated to die alone. It was unfair. This was never the life she had envisioned for herself. Now her brother is gone, unlikely to return anytime soon, and she would never see her husband again. She was alone.

* * *

They depart for the Emerald Graves as the moon disappears behind the mountains. The sun has yet to make an appearance, leaving the fortress shrouded in lighter shadows. The Iron Bull leads the party at the forefront with Dorian, atop their own mounts, while Solas quietly keeps pace beside her.

It’s easy to slip into a comfortable silence with Solas. He is calm, serene, regarding the landscape with observant shining eyes and the occasional flicker in her general direction. It was strange at first to realize he had been keeping watch on her. In another life, she had felt the constant gaze of several eyes on her, always watching and waiting for her to make a mistake. This was nothing like that. The elf’s observations were kindly, concerned, sometimes curious but never uncomfortable.

Evelyn trusted him, even trusted Dorian and the Iron Bull. It’s a startling realization when her mind processes just how much she has changed since leaving the Circle. The only person she had ever trusted to have her back, to protect her with their life, was Mahanon. She expected that after his death she would never again lower her defenses, to trust in another person for as long as she lived. Now here she lets her mount guide her, lets the apostate’s eyes glimpse over her to reassure himself and she lets herself feel some modicum of hard-earned peace.

Although she was more of a night-owl, the dawn had always left her breathless. The party scaled the mountain at a careful pace, the first of the sun’s rays reflecting off the snow and glimmering between the line of endless trees. The mage breathes in the cool air, revels in the feeling of icy wind on her skin. It has been a year since the Ostwick Circle fell, one of the last to do so. It has been more than a half a year since Mahanon had died. Yet she does not feel quite as alone as she did just mere days ago.

Her eyes roam over the gentle landscape, her gaze inevitably falling on the mage beside her. He wore his usual soft linens with thicker, tanned footwraps and a pelt of wolf’s fur around his broad shoulders to protect from the cold. His back is straight in the saddle, the leather reins rest between his long, slender fingers. For one ridiculous moment, Evelyn remembers the feeling of those gentle, calloused fingers slipping through the strands of her hair. The touch was unexpected, gentle, soothing; she is struck by how much she _wants_.

The guilt is overwhelming then. Evelyn forces her eyes forward, refusing to look back at the elf who she cannot seem to get out of her thoughts lately. Her hands grip her own reins tightly and she forces herself to focus on the sharp sting it leaves on her fingers. _What is wrong with me?_

For not the first time, she wonders what Mahanon would think of her now. He would likely be disappointed in her. That knowledge enforces her will to keep her gaze ahead for the rest of the journey.

They make camp on the outskirts of the Emerald Graves, nestled in a vibrantly green forest shrouded in mist. As Evelyn sets up her shared tent with Solas, she vaguely remembers a walk through the Fade in woodlands much like this. The man currently rolling out his bedroll next to hers had smiled brilliantly there, had seemed pleased at her reaction to such beauty. They had not met in the Fade since then.

It is difficult to sleep that night. The sound of crickets chirping, water rushing down a stream, Dorian and Bull canoodling in the tent beside hers and the rustling of tarp and linen from the shifting elf leave her restless. It is only a slight relief that the darkness obscures her deep blush but knowing the superior eyesight of elves, if Solas were to take one glance at her he would very likely know.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” a groan escapes Dorian, and Evelyn can barely contain the sigh of frustration.  She flips onto her side, facing away from Solas and curling into herself. “Oh, Bull – ”

That’s it. Evelyn bolts up from her bedroll and lifts her hands, blue light emanating from her palms as she mutters a spell under her breath. With a flick of her fingers, the spell bubbles around the confines of their tent and the breathy moans coming from Dorian’s tent are all at once stifled, leaving her and Solas in blessed silence.

As the light of the spell dies, she glances over to Solas only to find him looking at her with an amused quirk of his lips and a single brow lifted. “Are you sure that is wise, Inquisitor?”

“Evelyn,” she corrects automatically, shrugging once before flopping back down to her bedroll. She doesn’t look at him as she responds, “I haven’t been sleeping well as it is.”

There’s a shift in the air, a slight pause, before she hears him clear his throat softly. “Perhaps I may be of some assistance?”

The silence would help tremendously, but she knows sleep would not come. There are bags under her dark eyes now, night after night of memories had ensured that she would be unlikely to ever rest soundly again. She is happy for Dorian, she truly is, but selfishly her newfound friend’s happiness only reminded her of what she had been robbed of.

Mahanon’s touch – _a ghost of fingers sliding along her skin, lips falling upon her own, strong arms and hands guiding_ – it had been so long. The guilt gnaws at her very being, the memories, the words of affection. She would never partake in such love again. The thought leaves her feeling very cold.

“Any help would be welcome,” Evelyn finally acquiesces, turning her head partially to regard Solas. Even though she couldn’t fully make out his face in the dim light of the tent, she knew he would see her perfectly.

A hand tentatively reaches forward, slender and soft, cupping her reddened cheek gently. She finds herself frozen at the sudden touch, eyelids fluttering shut as she tries not to breathe too erratically. It is too much and altogether not enough. Memories flood her, of another’s reverent touch and the rise and fall of their chest. Her heart hammers insistently, pained and curious at the feeling of another man’s fingers brushing her cheek.

“ _Hamin_ ,” Solas whispers, the swell of an old spell on his lips as she succumbs to the pull of the Fade. He joins her no more than a moment longer, meeting on the outskirts of that comfortable meadow he prefers. The smile that seems to beam from within when she sees him softens his eyes and they are lost to memories and tales of his adventures as they meet with Wisdom.

* * *

 

**Solas POV**

The Inquisitor is not what he had expected. She is mortal, a human, doomed to a life that would be gone within the blink of an eye. When they first meet, he is not entirely impressed by her. The woman is shaking, notably frightened, eyes wild as she seems to search the battlefield for something. Her magic is erratic, a testament to how poorly concealed her emotions are. It is not until they reach the ruins of the temple that he begins to understand.

If nothing else, he will always remember the sound she made when her eyes scanned across the field of bodies and spotted the one she had been looking for. Her pleas, her screams had echoed throughout the quiet clearing and she hadn’t even realized they had been coming from her. She clung to that dead man, to the green cloak stitched with gold. A mop of shaggy auburn hair and elongated ears peeked from beneath the cloak, revealing her lover to be an elf. That had, admittedly, taken him by surprise. He’d assumed she was yet another prejudiced quickling, unfeeling and uncaring for the People. Yet, there in the blood-stained snow she mourned for one of the shadows of those who had been lost. 

It had been him and Cassandra to tug her away, his magic soothing her until her sobbing ceased and all that was left was a hollow woman who no longer had the heart or the voice to speak. He had wiped her tears, had lifted her with an arm around her waist, guiding her deeper into the wreckage. The human woman had moved like a ghost, had not shielded herself against the demons after opening the Breach, had done as she was told before falling unconscious.

Perhaps it would have been kinder, to let her succumb to the extensive injuries. He had healed her nevertheless. The anchor was attached to her and she was the only hope he had for salvation. So, he saved her. He sought her in the Fade, watching demons taunt her with the face of the man he now realized had been her husband. It was the least he could do to cast them from her dreams, to leave her to blessed sleep, uninterrupted.

This was his doing, _his fault_. Foolishly, he thought it would be easy to cast his lot in with the Inquisition and see them as nothing more than a means to an end. Once Corypheus had been dealt with and the orb was restored to his possession, this world would be no more, and that was fine by him. It did not matter, they did not matter, he told himself, and yet the more time he spent beside Evelyn Lavellan, the more he saw her as a person. Her unhinged grief had unraveled his beliefs, had toppled the careful barriers he had erected around his heart.

She was real, feeling, sorrowful and _trying_ despite everything the world and the Inquisition had been forcing her to endure. It wasn’t so simple anymore. He was moved by her and he couldn’t have stopped their friendship from forming even if he wanted to. The guilt made him stay, made him care, made him seek her out in the Fade and share his love of spirits. 

Yet, her husband was dead because of his mistakes and if she were to ever discover such a thing, her heart likely wouldn’t be able to take it. He wonders if a part of her would ever understand and decides that no matter the outcome, he would continue on this path.

They are in the Emerald Graves when he feels a pang of… something when he looks at her. They’re making camp for the night after a long day of fighting the Freemen of the Dales. She’s gazing longingly at the tree line, focused on a single flower sprouting from the soft, cool grass. Her brown hair is loosely tied back in a braid, a single stray strand lifting in the wind before she tucks it behind a small, rounded ear. The moonlight illuminates the silky strands, brightening her milky skin as she stares in wonder. She is beautiful. That is not something he would have ever thought about a human before. 

“Are you fond of Crystal Grace?” He ponders aloud and she glances at him, dark brows raised in surprise before she composes herself. If she were an elf, she would have heard him approach and the thought sobers him. 

"Is that what they are?” The Inquisitor clarifies and smiles softly, looking back to the flower. “I’ve never seen one before. It’s beautiful.”

Ah, of course. For how wise the young mage was, it came sometimes as a surprise just how much she did not know. She had been confined to a prison at a young age, robbed of a life of nobility. A part of him thinks he is glad of it. The woman before him would not be who she is today if she had not been sent to the Circle. She’d be another ignorant noble, talents wasted in favor of being married off to another member of the nobility to produce heirs who would follow in the same pattern. No, the Circle for however limiting it was, had opened her eyes to the cruelties of the world, had softened her heart to the plight of the mages and even the elves. He understands that now after witnessing her reunion with the remainder of what family she knew in another life. 

Before they leave camp the next day, Solas takes care to pluck the single flower from the ground, placing an enchantment on the petals so it would never wither. He wraps it in a cloth and carefully tucks it into his pack, wondering when he will have the chance to gift it to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen translation: 
> 
> Hamin - Rest


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The loss of Wisdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Talk of suicide, major depression 
> 
> All aboard the angst train I guess. I just can't seem to help myself!

Evelyn does everything she can for Wisdom but it is not enough. They’ve corrupted her, warped her very being. It doesn’t take an expert on the Fade to realize that the spirit will never be the same. A lost cause it may be, she still moves on to destroy the barriers. She’ll do anything to give Solas the time he needs with Wisdom.

The Iron Bull takes the brunt of Wisdom’s assault but he stays his hand and distracts them while Evelyn and the other mages work to break the bonds. Sweat soaks through her mage armor, dripping into her eyes. Lightning scorches her arms and torso but the mage doesn’t so much as flinch in the presence of Solas. She will be strong for him. Dorian, on the other hand, is much more vocal about his injuries.

“I don’t suppose we could hurry this up a bit?” The Tevinter mage inquires from beside her, narrowly ducking out of the way of Pride’s whip. A crack of lightning illuminates the very spot he had stood just a moment before.

Bull shouts something, bringing the spirit’s attention back to him as Solas finally crushes the last of the barriers. The bonds break and Pride falls. Their form begins to dissipate, the residual electric magic crackles in the air, and in its place Wisdom kneels on the ground. Evelyn begins to move to her but Solas is there first.

Her friend falls to his knees beside Wisdom, his head bowed in sorrow. She yearns to move to his side, to say her own farewells to Wisdom, but she will offer him their privacy. The sob that catches in her throat threatens to break as she hears Wisdom speak in Elvhen, the words soft and lyrical. Solas responds in kind, his own voice quaking.

To her surprise, Wisdom’s ethereal eyes find hers across the scorched field. Tears stream down Evelyn’s face as the spirit offers her a broad smile. The spirit’s form scatters in the wind and then Wisdom is truly gone.

Ignoring her own shock and sorrow, she hurries to Solas’s side. The elf’s head is bowed and body shivering. Her hand moves of their own volition, firm and steady on his shoulder, anchoring him, as she falls to her knees. “ _Solas_. I-I’m here.”

Before he can give her any kind of answer, the mages who had done this begin to speak.  The apostate’s head snaps up in an instant, her hand shoved away as Solas moves to stand. His eyes are darker than she has ever seen them. The normally calm demeanor of his is utterly gone as he whirls on the mages.

“ _You_ ,” he snarls, fists clenched tightly as he stalks towards them. The mages hold their hands up in surrender, in confusion, and something ugly twists in her chest. Would she have made the same choice in their position? She wants to think that she would not, that she would know better than to bind a harmless spirit with blood magic. Yet, they were desperate. “You corrupted it, forced it to kill!”

“Solas,” Evelyn starts but he sends a sharp glare back to her.

“W-we were surrounded by Templars, we are refugees from Kirkwall. Please, if you knew –,” One of the mages tries to speak but Solas is already reaching for his staff. Evelyn moves to stop him but it is too late. His magic is cast and before she can do anything, the mages responsible lay dead at the elf’s feet.

Her hand stills in the air, her eyes wide as she looks upon the man who had murdered these former Circle mages so easily. She’s appalled, shocked beyond belief, and yet her heart thunders in her ears when she notices the gleam of unshed tears and festering grief in his stormy eyes. Lowering her hand, she slowly moves to her companion’s side. It takes everything in her not to look down upon the three burning bodies just mere feet away.  

“Solas –,” Evelyn tries to speak but he shakes his head, refusing to make eye contact.

“ _Damn them all_ ,” he breathes out and flinches away when she moves to touch his arm. “I need some time alone. I will meet you back at Skyhold.”

The elf turns from the wreckage, head down as he marches away from them. She cannot stop him, cannot fathom the sudden onset of her own grief that threatens to bubble through the surface. The tears fall of their own accord, her voice breaks as she calls after him, “You do not have to grieve alone.”

For a moment her words hang in the air as Solas pauses. He ignores her and continues to walk away. A part of her firmly believes she will very likely never see the apostate again.

 

* * *

 

That night in the Fade, she finds it harder than ever to rest. Wisdom had spoken to her of grief before, had offered her comforting words and reassurances. Now, Evelyn has no one. Mahanon and now Wisdom. Probably Solas, too, knowing it was unlikely she would ever see his face again.

It hurts. It always does.

“ _Why did you let me die?_ ” Mahanon’s ghost asks and she never has an answer for him. The library where she found love is gone, replaced by the darkness of the Ostwick Harrowing chamber. A room shrouded in evil, filled with Templars prepared to strike down an unconscious mage who had been dreaming too long.

“ _Evie please_ ,” he begs and she falls to her knees and sobs. An image of him is there this time, kneeling in front of her, auburn curls shining dark in the dim light of the room. She looks at him then.

His skin is that same bronze she remembered running her hands over. His hair as shaggy and unruly as she admired. He looks at her, facing her head-on, and with a jolt she realizes she can no longer remember the finer details of his appearance. Vaguely, she knows, there had been faint lines around his dark eyes, a smattering of light freckles over his nose, a reminder of another lifetime spent in the wilds with his people.

This specter is not her husband. He –no, it– is the only version of her husband that her mind can conjure. Evelyn stares at the demon, mouth open in horror, knuckles stretched white and frozen where she grips the skirt of her dark Circle robes.

“I can’t remember,” the mage whispers, helpless, and sucks in a too-quick breath. She can’t see his face anymore, she would never, ever see the real Mahanon Lavellan ever again and she wants to die.

The thought has rooted itself within her mind and she cannot seem to shake it no matter how much good she does, how much the world _needs_ her, she is selfish. A creature broken and bruised, too weak for Thedas, too weak to even remember her husband’s freckles and scars.

 “ _Join me_ ,” the demon wearing Mal’s false face croons and she wants to. She would do anything to see him again, to forget this world, to forget this hurt, to forget the comfort she had found in Wisdom who is gone, gone, they’re all gone.

“Stop,” Evelyn chokes out, tears pouring unstoppably down her cheeks.

The remainder of the night is spent like that. Tears falling, the spectral image of her husband urging her to join him in the afterlife, and her own heart yearning for her to just give up already.

 

* * *

 

Dorian and Bull do not try to speak to her about it. Her grief makes them uncomfortable and she is not yet strong enough to pretend that she isn’t being torn apart. And so, she does not speak. She listens to Dorian and Bull flirt with each other on the road and uses silencing wards in her tent so she cannot hear them as they make their way back to Skyhold. No one can hear her cries as she tries to stay awake in vain, clutching at her bedroll, praying to whatever Maker or gods will listen so she may not be visited by demons that night. They never listen. They never have.

They don’t tell you that even the strongest wards cannot protect you when your emotions are out of control. She tries to seek out anything else to distract herself in the Fade, visiting old, happier memories, but her own feelings get in the way too often. Her sorrow, her failure to mask her pain, guides her dreams into darkness and nightmares. Each night, she wakes covered in a sheen of sweat, on the verge of a scream.

After they return to Skyhold, Evelyn dares not hope to find Solas waiting for her. He is nowhere to be found, of course, and it is then that she resigns herself to him not returning. There is business to conduct, there always is, and she complies. Josephine guides her through traveling dignitary visits and ballroom etiquette. Leliana helps her send ravens and scouts across Thedas. She goes to Cullen whenever he fancies a match of chess that she can never seem to win.

Life moves on and yet she does not. Her heart is broken. Foolishly, she had looked upon Solas and seen a handsome face; a distraction from her sorrow. Even he had left her alone, so alone, _always alone_. Still, she worries for him. She wonders how he fares, how he handles his own grief, and stupidly she wants to hold his hand and tell him that it was going to be okay. He had done the same for her, once.

“I’m telling you, Kid, you’re going to love Hawke,” Varric promises as he drags her away from her room and into the Great Hall. Undoubtedly, she knew she would like her. The Champion of Kirkwall was a hero to the mages, to the citizens of Kirkwall, and the Chantry had hunted her for it. Marian Hawke knew what it was to grieve and although the thought should comfort Evelyn, she did not believe she was ready to meet the woman who had given her and her husband so much hope.

“Inquisitor, meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall,” Varric speaks reverently, gazing upward at the mage’s tower where a surprisingly normal looking woman descends the stairs leading towards the battlements.

Hawke approaches cautiously, her eyes scanning over Evelyn thoughtfully before fondly flickering back over to Varric. The woman offers a faint smile as she finishes her approach, “Though I don’t use that title much anymore.”

“Hawke, the Inquisitor. I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus. You and I did fight him after all,” Varric finishes his introductions, watching carefully as the two women who bear too much weight upon their shoulders finally meet. The dwarf then bows in an exaggerated fashion, winking at Hawke before he leaves the two to speak.

Evelyn knows she should speak, should break the awkward silence that seems to linger in the space between them. Yet she does not know what to say. Here stands the woman in the flesh whose story had fanned the flames of her desire to break free of the Circle. A woman who found love with an escaped slave with a prejudice against her own kind. A hero who had seen far too much death for one lifetime.

“Impressive view,” Hawke begins softly, her deep blue eyes finding hers after looking across the expanse of Skyhold. The Inquisitor settles in beside Hawke, leaning against the solid stone and watching the people go about their business when Hawke begins to speak.

They talk of duty, of course, of Corypheus and everything Hawke could possibly know about his reappearance. The way the Champion speaks of the blighted monster is unsettling, her posture rigid, her eyes filled with poorly concealed worry.

“He is my responsibility,” the Champion says sharply, her palms fisted and eyes so far away.

“This is not your doing,” Evelyn assures her gently. Hawke merely shakes her head, avoiding her gaze.

“No,” the other woman breathes out raggedly. “I am to blame. If I have to lay down my life in order to stop Corypheus then I shall.”

Something in the way she declares such a thing sends a sharp pang of alarm throughout her being. What of the Champion’s husband? Her family?

“And what about Fenris?” The mage cannot help but ask, causing the other woman to look back up at her.

“He’s safe,” she says but it is no real answer.

“I would not throw your life away so easily, Hawke. I’ve heard the tales, I’ve read your story. You and Fenris have something worth keeping. It’s embarrassing to admit, but you inspired me and my own husband. We thought that if another human and elf could manage to run away and marry without the support of the Chantry that we could too,” Evelyn explains, her voice cracking and too quiet, her mind conjuring images of Mahanon laughing and smiling as they ran away. Maker, _she can’t_.

“Please don’t leave Fenris alone in a world without his heart.”

Hawke does not say anything for a moment. She feels her eyes on her, likely surprised at the sudden emotion in the leader of the Inquisition. From the corner of her eye she notices Hawke settle back beside her, looking down at the refugees walking in and out of the Herald’s Rest, scurrying off to the marketplace, carrying bundles of goods and food.

“Varric mentioned you lost a husband. I’m so sorry for your loss.” The other woman’s hand rests softly on her shoulder and she does not move to push her away.

“I imagine you know something of loss. How do you handle it?” Evelyn wonders aloud, broken and so, so lost. The knowledge of just what the future holds for her is staggering, the countless number of lives who depend on her threatening to make her crack. All of this and yet she has lost the only support she needs.

“You don’t.”

Evelyn shakes her head, a vain attempt to brush off the suddenness of her bottomless sorrow. Taking a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, she dares to glance up at the Champion of Kirkwall and in her place is no strong mage, vanquisher of evil, hero to the people. There stands a woman, clutching the Inquisitor’s shoulder, expression fragile, eyes filled with longing and only the kind of sadness that accompanies the loss of someone you love. 

She places her hand on top of Hawke’s and they turn back to watch the countless people, unspoken words left hanging in the air between them, taking comfort in their shared sorrows.

 

* * *

 

When Evelyn returns to her far too large chambers, the sun has finished its descent behind the jagged mountain landscape. The moons have yet to make an appearance, but the endless smattering of stars is there to greet her as she moves to the balcony and simply breathes.

The mage crosses her arms, shivering against the icy wind, but she makes no move to go back inside. It feels good in its own way. She stands as tall as she can at the peak of Skyhold, of the Frostbacks, and the constellations and little dots of planets overhead remind her that there will never be another tower shielding her from such devastating beauty.

“Inquisitor –” a familiar voice interrupts her reverie, making her whirl around in a panic, her heart thundering within her chest when she sees _him_ approaching her.

“Evelyn,” she corrects, a force of habit at this point, yet amazed all the same at his reappearance. He walks through the doorway to her balcony, cloaked in shadow, and yet under the stars and the dim light of twilight she can make out his form perfectly. There are no injuries that she can see, his stance is tall and assured, his stormy gaze locks with her own as he finishes his approach. “ _You’re back_.”

“I am,” he agrees, the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. The way he looks at her, a combination of wonder and fondness, leaves her feeling breathless. _He’s back_.

“Where did you go?” She cannot help but ask, uncrossing her arms to reach for him before her mind thinks better of it.

“I slept. I traveled the Fade for days, searching the many places where I would meet Wisdom. I had hoped to find some trace of her but…” his voice trails off, heavy and slightly wavering. The sight of Solas in such distress makes something in her ache. She yearns to wrap her arms around him then, to breathe in the smell of books and greenery, to try and make it okay.

“I’m so sorry I could not do more,” she apologizes softly, her own voice breaking. For weeks she has endured this pain, has fallen right back into the place she was in when she had first lost Mahanon. It’s too much, too painful, she’s too alone and she is too powerless despite the titles everyone seems to be dumping on her. How could she not even save one of her ally’s dearest friends?

“Inqui – _Evelyn_ ,” Solas breathes out in shock, his own hand moving to gently grasp her shoulder, mirroring Hawke’s earlier position. “You did everything you could. More than I could have ever asked for. I am truly grateful.”

Evelyn keeps her gaze upward to the ever-darkening sky, the growing light of the rising moons bathing her in its ethereal light. The tears gather at the corner of her eyes and she’s determined to try her best not to let them fall. How selfish she was, to make even his own grief about her.

“I’m sorry, I know this is not about me right now. Just ignore my emotional mess,” she excuses herself, wiping stubbornly with her shirt sleeves at the stray tears that have fallen. “I’m here for you, Solas. I’m just _so sorry_.”

Solas does not respond for a moment, but she feels his grip on her shoulder tighten as he moves to face her, blocking her view of the snowy mountains and bright night sky. Before she can protest, he pulls her tightly into his arms. He buries his face in her hair, tucking her head into the crook of his long, slender neck and shoulder. One of her hands wraps around his waist, the other she places gently on his chest, spreading her fingers into the linen, tangling into the leather string of his jawbone pendant.

“It is I who should apologize, my friend; I should have never left you. I did not stop to think of how Wisdom’s loss would impact you too,” he speaks reverently into her hair, the feeling of his lips moving on the top of her head making her shiver. She tightens her grip on him and breathes in the scent of his skin on her nose, helplessly watching her tears soak into the tunic he favors.

“ _Nonsense_ ,” Evelyn protests, shaking her head against him. “You were her friend far before she was mine. I should not be this weak.”

“You are not weak,” he answers her, voice tinged with sincerity. She wants to believe him when he says it like that.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, as if it were a mantra, as if it could take away the sting of Wisdom’s death.

“I’m sorry too."

They do not move to part for a long time.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some fluff! And whoops there's more angst.

The journey to Crestwood is daunting. Despite Evelyn’s usual fondness for rain, the constant downpour combined with the endless wave of undead who attack them at every turn is exhausting. She’s soaked to the bone, shivering relentlessly, and yet she cannot spare the magic to keep herself dry after the previous fight they had with red Templars. After a particularly brutal smite, she was barely hanging on as she trudged into camp beside an equally weary Varric, a gruff Blackwall, and a frustratingly clean and content Solas.

Hawke and Stroud had set off towards the Western Approach in search of the remaining Grey Wardens. Evelyn had spent an entire week closing rifts, fighting undead and Templars, obtaining an entire fortress from bandits, and even arresting the mayor of Crestwood. After stumbling upon a dragon’s lair near the ruins of an old castle, she was well and truly done with the region.

“Maker’s ass the world has gone to shit,” Varric mutters with a huff as he pulls free his boot and dumps the water out on the other side of the log he sat upon around the roaring fire. Thankfully, after closing the last rift in the cave near Old Crestwood, the rain had come to an end.

“I imagine the Iron Bull won’t be too pleased to hear we battled a dragon without him,” Blackwall notes as he wipes down his sword with a cloth. Evelyn murmurs her agreements as she dumps the vegetables she’d been peeling and chopping into the bubbling pot of stock she had going over the fire, praying the food would at least be edible. Occasionally, she’d be stuck on kitchen duty in the Circle but she never really learned much outside of making simple food for nourishment. The mages weren’t usually afforded luxuries like spices and herbs.

“I’ll keep an eye on it. Go change, Kid,” Varric insists with an affectionate pat on the back, effectively scooting her away from the fire.

“Is my cooking truly so terrible?” Evelyn asks with mock offense, shivering against a sudden breeze on her back.

“Your cooking is delicious, my Lady,” Blackwall speaks up politely, glancing up at her from his sword with a nod. She flashes him a grateful smile before hurrying behind the flap of the tent she shared with Solas. Digging into her pack, Evelyn grabs a hold of what she thought was her last remaining clean tunic and then loses all hope. After their last fight with the dragon, she had forgotten to actually clean the blighted thing, leaving her soaking wet and freezing in her sopping tunic. With a huff, she exited the tent and moved to sit directly in front of the fire in a vain attempt to dry before trying to get some sleep.

“Can’t help but notice you’re still soaking, Kid,” Varric quips, stirring the pot of stew with a wooden spoon.

“I may have forgotten to do my washing after the dragon fight. I’ll just have to put up with it,” she mutters, teeth chattering while Blackwall and Varric exchange a worried look.

“Can’t you mages dry yourself off using some magic shit? You know you can’t go back to Skyhold with a cold, Josephine would have our hides,” the author suggests and she shakes her head.

“I’m completely drained, Varric, and so is Solas. I’ll be okay,” she brushes his concerns off but another voice chimes in.

“If it would not bother you, Inquisitor, I have a spare tunic that I could lend you,” Solas offers, perfectly polite, but Varric’s eyebrows immediately lift exaggeratedly at her. Evelyn shoots him a warning look, mouthing “ _don’t even start_ ” before turning to acknowledge the kind mage.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble, that would be lovely,” Evelyn agrees, hoping the flush in her cheeks is not too visible by the light of the fire as she follows him back inside their shared tent.

The elf rummages through his own pack, parting neatly folded clothes and suspiciously heavy tomes before pulling out a spare tunic. He hands it to her with a nod and leaves her once again to her privacy. It’s impossible not to imagine the feeling of this soft, linen tunic beneath the skin of her cheek. Not too long ago, he had embraced her, tucking her head into his chest, smoothing her hair back with his slender fingers.

Shaking her head as if to dispel such thoughts, the Inquisitor drags herself out of her wet tunic, teeth chattering and gooseflesh abundant on her too-cool skin. Much to her chagrin, the sodden piece of clothing was now dripping onto her bedroll, leaving her scrambling to wring it out outside of the tent much to the amusement of Varric if his audible chuckling was anything to go by.

After finally managing to towel herself off enough, Evelyn shimmies Solas’s tunic over her form and the effect it has on her is almost immediate. The garment is well-worn, soft, and most importantly it is warm. Her entire body shivers again, her arms locking around her knees as she breathes in the scent that is so distinctly Solas. It reminds her of a cold, mountain forest in the dead of winter. Skyhold. Something indescribably ancient and powerful. It should feel strange, it should perhaps even frighten her, but the feeling is _exhilarating_.

Another man should not be having such an impact on her so soon after she had lost Mahanon. The thought is sobering but how can she possibly deny it any longer? After a battle, his eyes are the first she searches for, an assurance that he yet lives, that he will be okay after all. His presence brings her the most comfort, despite the close friendships she has gained since walking out of the Fade. When he speaks to her, looks upon her with those bright eyes the color of the sea under the eye of a storm, she thinks she could well and truly lose herself in them. He’s a distraction from the pain, from the never-ending grief that threatens to sink its claws deeper into her. He gives her hope for a future she didn’t think she could ever have again and that is enough.

Evelyn exits the tent, laying out her own wet tunic by the fire before taking her seat beside Solas. She takes a bowl of stew and dares to flicker her gaze to meet him. He had already been watching her and yet when their eyes meet he does not look away.

 

* * *

 

  **Solas POV**

 

It is startling to realize just what sort of effect the Inquisitor was having on him. The sight of her in his tunic, the garment drooping from her shoulders, her arms wrapping around her form to fight off the chill of the night is just too much.

He cannot find sleep that night. He finds that he does not even necessarily want to.

She is laying on her back, her head tilted towards him and eyes flickering underneath closed eyelids as if she were lost deep within the Fade. He cannot help but wonder if she searches for him. Does she even know that her spirit seems to call for him from across the Fade? Those long weeks he spent away from Skyhold, consumed by his grief, feeling her spirit in agony had drawn him back. He had been foolish to leave her, to know that she was drowning in her own grief and he had done nothing to soothe the pain. After his return, he could not stop himself from immediately visiting her chambers, wrapping his arms around her, feeling her cling to the tunic she now wore in her sleep.

This human woman, strong and yet _so fragile_ , her heart a delicate thing that he dare not try to possess. She would be his undoing. How weak had he become after wakening to such a broken world? So weak as to cow before a pretty face. A pretty face that belonged not to one of the People.

Wisdom was gone, otherwise he would have searched for answers from her. They had spoken about Evelyn; about her fortitude, her intelligence, her utter fascination at the world around her. She had been endearing, right from the very beginning of their acquaintance and he had foolishly begun to let his guard slip.

Despite the sorrow, the lost expression she wore whenever she was left to her own thoughts for too long, he found himself wanting to be near her more and more. He was just one of the many who had been drawn to the Herald of Andraste, the leader of the Inquisition. Yet not many could say they had borne witness to her vulnerability as he had. They shared a certain intimacy, perhaps the kind of attachment one felt towards a dear friend, but he would be fooling himself to truly believe there was nothing more to it.

Why, _oh why_ , did she have to come to him? He would find her in the rotunda more often than not, admiring his work on the murals. Sometimes she would make conversation, would compliment his artistic skill, would even make herself comfortable on the sofa lost in some fantasy novel about adventure. Her presence was not unwelcome, it actually had quite the opposite effect on him. He found himself wondering when she’d next visit him, when she’d ask him to tell her more about his wanderings in the Fade, when she’d ask for his opinions on the theory of Fade magic. How could he ever refuse her?

It was _hopeless_ , he thought wearily, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept so soundly. More soundly than the first few months after the Conclave, after she had lost her husband. The husband he himself may as well have killed. The thought should not make him feel as guilty as it does. This world was not his own, they were not his people. It was his responsibility to fix the abomination that was the modern age, no matter how many lives were lost. Still his traitorous heart felt heavy at the mere thought of what Evelyn would think of him if only she knew.

The human mage shifted in her sleep, a small whine slipping past her lips, black brows beginning to furrow. His hand moved before his brain caught up with him, fingers ghosting across her cheekbone, murmuring “ _hamin_ ” softly. The furrow in her brow softened, lips barely parted as she settled back into the bedroll. A sigh left him, head bowed, looking upon her face with something akin to gentle affection.

Reluctantly, he moved his hand back, settling back into his own bedroll. It was not another moment later when Evelyn shifted again, turning to her side and nuzzling closer, her head settling into the space between his neck and shoulder. All the air in his lungs escaped him, the warmth in his chest pooling pleasantly as he let himself indulge in the selfish comfort of her touch. He fell asleep feeling the heat of her lips on his skin.

 

* * *

 

Evelyn feels the dream shift before she feels him. The mess hall of the Circle disappears, the curious spirits and wisps watching her abruptly depart, and she is left whirling as Haven appears before her. Solas is there not a moment later, his posture impeccably perfect, his eyes carefully scanning their new landscape before beginning to walk ahead of her. She follows him in awe.

“Haven,” she speaks breathlessly, each tiny little detail come to life. The apostate had always been a bit of a perfectionist when it came to his area of expertise. “Why here?”

“Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you,” he explains simply and she thinks she hears a smile in his voice as they wordlessly descend into the dungeon beneath the Chantry.

“I sat beside you while you slept, studying the anchor,” Solas continues as he pauses before the post where she had first awoken, tied up and confused, anxious and terrified of what she knew was to come. The memory makes her shiver despite the lack of cold in the Fade.

“How long could it take to look at a mark on my hand?” She cannot help but tease, trying to ease the tension she feels in her own heart at the sight of such a wretched place.

“A magical mark of unknown origin? Tied to a unique breach in the veil? Longer than you might think,” Solas answers, turning to regard her and she can’t help but be drawn into his words when he speaks to her like this. He goes on to explain his futile search in the Fade for answers regarding the anchor and how Cassandra had threatened him.

“Cassandra is like that with everyone,” she quips and the sound of his laughter that follows feels intoxicating.

Solas leaves the dungeon, the mirth still dancing in his expression as she trails behind him, letting him lead her for once. He stops in front of the Chantry, turning back to gaze at her as he shares his thoughts on her impossibility.

“You were never going to wake up. How could you? A mortal sent physically through the Fade?” He muses, voice filled with wonder as he speaks. "I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach. Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra, or she in me. I was ready to flee.”

That gives her pause. Would Solas truly abandon Thedas to its fate? “The Breach threatened to whole world. Where did you plan to go?”

“Someplace far away where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me,” Solas is quick to explain and the jolt of worry immediately dissipates when he smirks slightly to himself. “I never said it was a _good_ plan.”

A vision of her and Solas appears before them, the familiar sickly, green Rift being closed before them as he clutches at her hand, raised towards the sky. The look on her face sent another pang of… something throughout her. She had appeared so very frightened. That day was not a day she ever liked to think about. All she had been focused on was finding Mal. Her need for him had consumed her every thought, had distracted her even from the incredulous realization that the painful anchor on her hand could potentially close the Breach. The plan had been to find Mahanon and leave, to never look back. Yet here she stands beside an apostate in the Fade, holding onto his every word, watching this past version of herself. All she feels is regret. This was not how it should have been.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” Solas says as the vision fades, the smile on his lips helping to draw her out of her grim thoughts. “You had sealed it with a gesture… and right then I felt the whole world change.”

There is something different in the way he is talking to her. His eyes are too light and focused only on her, his fingers are slightly twitching at his sides, and the smile on his lips seems to grow. Her own heartbeat quickens, she feels her veins thrum with anticipation and she answers with a hesitant smile of her own. It should not be this way, she knows this, yet his gaze will be her undoing. Solas is not Mahanon. Although both were elves, they had fundamentally different personalities. Where Mal had been young and brash, fiery red hair matched with his dramatic spell-casting, Solas was perhaps the exact opposite. Where Mal was fire, Solas is ice. He is older, wiser, calculating and observant in his actions. He is the devastating power of the winter, of the frozen wilds. Evelyn likes him, enjoys his company, his steady presence. He makes her feel... free. He had shown her to master the Fade, to be more observant, to question the way the world worked. 

Evelyn Lavellan _wants_ him. She wants him more than she should in that moment as she finally answers him. 

“Felt the whole world change?”

“Ah – a figure of speech.”

She feels her lips moving but she cannot register anything other than the look on his face, the beating of her heart, the flush she feels on her cheeks. Maker, Creators, _whatever_ – she has not felt this way in a long time.

“You change…everything,” Solas says it like a prayer, like a treasured secret he could only share with her. She wants to be reckless. And so she is.

Her hand catches his, her eyes searching his for any hesitance, and she finds none. She wonders if he can feel the thundering pulse in her wrist. Evelyn draws closer, her gaze zooming in on his soft, pale lips and she cannot contain her need any longer.

The speed in which she throws herself at him would be comical if she were not currently kissing him. The heat in her belly expands as her lips move over his, searching and curious, yet soft and yielding. The feeling is incredible until it abruptly isn’t. He is not kissing her back. Dread fills her every thought, every movement, as she practically throws herself off of him. How could she be so wrong? Of course he did not feel the same, how could she even feel this way? She had never, ever been more mortified in her entire adult life. A different kind of heat rushes to her face as she looks away, “I’m so –”

She never got the chance to finish that apology. Solas had grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her around, his lips crashing onto hers far more desperately, passionately than she had dared to with him. Her mouth falls open in a gasp and he is quick to take advantage of their new position, his tongue swiping against her bottom lip, teasing, before tangling with her own.

Her hands are shaking, she realizes belatedly, as she clings to him for purchase. She feels lighter than air, as if her heart had given up from all the excitement. He feels like _magic_ beneath her palms where they grip his tunic, against his lips where they meet _again_ and _again_. It’s too much and not enough. If this is how she reacts in the Fade, just what could this be like in the waking world?

All too soon, he pulls away, panting and far more disheveled than she has ever seen him, looking down upon her with wide eyes. He probably wasn’t expecting that (not that she could say the same for herself). Her own breaths come shallowly, her chest rising and falling too fast, the flush in her face likely a beacon for spirits of desire and lust. Solas seems to realize this too.

“We shouldn’t,” Solas finally speaks – thankfully –  because she doesn’t think she has enough of her wits about her to. “It isn’t right. Not even here.”

Evelyn nods understandingly. He is still clutching her arms and she really, really does not want to move away. They stare at each other, at their swollen lips, their reddened cheeks, their uneven breaths.

“I-It must be morning now,” she tries to speak, a rather stupid point of conversation, but Solas nods.

“Ah, yes. I suppose it’s time for you to _wake up_.”

Evelyn’s eyes fly open to the sight of a familiar shoulder beneath her cheek. The clean, woodland scent of him fills the entire space around her and she already feels herself blushing as she sits up, taking notice of the comfortable tunic slipping from her own shoulders. Everything about this was new territory for her. She had been a teenager when she met Mahanon, there had been no sort of courting practices in the Circle.

The reminder was overwhelming. What had she done, _what had she done?_ Maker, she kissed him. Solas, another elf who likely did have quite a few years on her. An elf who was most certainly not Mahanon. How could she do such a thing? 

Tears escape her eyes and she stubbornly swipes them away with the sleeve of Solas's linen tunic. Mal is gone, never to walk among the living again. Logically, she knows this but the guilt is there regardless. Could she not even respect the memory of her husband for even a year? Looking down, her eyes find the thin band of gold around her finger. She wears his ring and then throws herself at another man. 

Shame washes over her, quieting her racing thoughts. She is everything the demon wearing Mal's face had said she was. 

No matter how she felt about Solas, how right it seemed in the Fade, she decides in that moment as the elf in question begins to stir beside her, that she would never kiss him again. This would be an incredibly long day.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Fade tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! It's only been like 9 months! Yikes, sorry about that to anyone who cares about this story. Here, have some angst.

Evelyn decides that very morning that she is a fool. She dresses as quickly as she possibly can beside the sleeping mage, tugging her armor tightly over her chest and lacing up her boots quickly before exiting the leather Inquisition tent.

The morning is quiet and calm, dew-coated grass brushes against her legs as she approaches the dwindling fire. After sparking it back to life with a snap of her fingers, the fire roars ominously, the flames tickling her face before she leans back. The Inquisitor gets about to making their breakfast: a simple fare of sausages and eggs, along with a pot of smoky black tea. Blackwall is the first to emerge at the smell of food, sending a polite nod in her direction before disappearing behind the trees to relieve himself. He joins her by the fire, content in the silence of dawn, bright eyes lost in thought while watching the flames dance.

Evelyn thinks she is a terrible person when Solas exits their tent. He sends a glance in her direction, but she cannot make herself look his way. Despite the insistent pounding of her heart, the feeling of his lips on hers – _was it not just moments before?_ – she cannot forgive herself. Had she been unfaithful? Her husband may have been dead, but it had been just less than a year. The memory of Mahanon was still too fresh, it did not feel right. She had _taken his name_. Was that not proof enough of her supposed devotion?

Maker, had she not been devoted? Her entire heart had belonged to her fellow Circle mage. They had their petty squabbles, inconsequential marital disagreements from time to time, but it had solidified her security as his wife. His lover. Forever. Evelyn Lavellan.

Who was she without him?

As she eats the food that she doesn’t really care to taste, she thinks that she does not really know who she is without her husband. Mahanon had consumed her every thought. Solas… may as well be doing the same. She could not afford to enter a relationship. Not now. Not with the world falling apart around them. Especially not when it is her husband that she still longs for. There’s likely a part of her that always will long for him. They had not said goodbye, after all.  

Evelyn doesn’t speak much that day. They battle bears and giants alike as they travel back towards Skyhold. She keenly feels several pairs of eyes on her, but she can’t meet any of them. Blackwall and Varric strike up a conversation about Maker knows what. Solas interjects with some quiet musings and it’s the only time she finds herself listening.

Instead she listens to the rustling of the wind through the trees, the chatter of sparrows, the thumping of the mounts’ hooves against hard ground, the whistle of arrows that fly through the air when they are abruptly attacked by bandits. She throws herself into battle, only too eager for the distraction, casting lightning and ice at their foe before her people are the only ones left standing.

Briefly, she locks eyes with her fellow mage, unconsciously searching for him across the battlefield for the reassurance that he yet lives. Solas glances down to her arm and makes a face before swiftly crossing the field to her. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to.

“You’re hurt,” he chastises, and she finds that she has no words. The mage wets a rag he secures from his belt and begins the tedious task of cleaning the wound on her forearm, eyes locked firmly on the injury. “I gather it is unnecessary to tell you to be more careful.”

“Indeed,” she agrees quietly and at the sound of her voice he flickers his gaze at her face before turning back to the wound. Her cheeks flare red at his scrutiny and she prays to whatever gods exist that he does not take notice.

Evelyn is a coward. There are so many words that bubble in her throat, but she has not the heart to say them. “ _I’m not ready for a relationship_ ” would likely be the ideal thing to say and yet she knows she won’t. Not yet. At least not while he was handling an open wound on her arm. His gentle touch and lingering gaze force such thoughts from her mind anyway. She cannot possibly fathom whatever _this_ was between them.

The broken skin begins to knit closed, the tender feeling of Solas’ magic warming its way through to her bones. The sensation is all at once soothing and too much, and she cannot help but lean into such a comfort. After his magic leaves her, she feels cold and perhaps a bit empty.

“Inquisitor,” Solas begins to speak, his brows furrowing as their eyes lock.

“Evelyn,” she corrects. It’s an impulse at this point.

“Evelyn, I –”

“Inquisitor, a note for you,” a scout interrupts and Solas abruptly moves back on his heels and stands.

“Of course,” she turns to the scout, quietly sheltering her disappointment. The apostate does not approach her the rest of their trip.

 

* * *

 

After their return to Skyhold, Evelyn has very little chance to relax before she and the rest of the inner circle are being carted off to the Western Approach. The journey is endless and taxing, the entire party far too tired to engage in much conversation when they make camp in the evenings.

Mahanon haunts her dreams. It feels like he always will. Evelyn knows that he is either nothing but a mere figment of her imagination or a demon hell bent on torturing her. No matter the case, she cannot bring herself to banish his specter and so instead she lets herself listen to his voice.

“ _Adulterer_ ,” he whispers often. “ _Liar_ ,” He taunts her, and she lets him because at least she can hear his voice. It is starting to become unhealthy.

She is not built for the desert. The harsh environment is too rough on her, burning her skin red and drying her lips until they ache. Her companions don’t fare much better, although Bull seems to be handling himself pretty well. Poor Commander Cullen looked the worse for wear, burnt from the very tips of his ears and down into the thick layer of furs and armor he insists upon wearing.

Solas, damn him, has not once complained or shown his weariness under the beating sun. Instead he wears his strikingly dark sunburn with poise and never once staggered under the relentless heat. During the cool nights, she watches him by the fire sipping at his waterskin, unsure of how to approach him about the possibility wearing a hat. They had not once spoken since their kiss in the Fade.

It is on their fifth night into the Approach when she finally works up the nerve to speak to him. It is the dead of night and she cannot bear to sleep while Mahanon waits for her on the other side. Instead she sits up on her bedroll and spots Solas, alone and contemplative during his watch before she stands and moves to sit by him next to the fire.

“Solas,” she greets him softly, her voice far more worn and tired than she had anticipated.

“Inquisitor,” he returns her greeting and does not look her way. She finds that she cannot blame him.

Undeterred by his lack of interest, she settles down on the rock beside him and looks into the fire. The air feels heavy with unspoken words and the whispering wind does little to calm her already frazzled nerves. Yet, she knows she cannot let this go on any longer.

Reaching into her pack, she retrieves a jar of aloe, quietly setting it into his palm. He gives her a questioning look and she shrugs before explaining, “Aloe will help calm the burn. Might I recommend a hat?”

The corner of his lip twitches ever so slightly and his posture seems to relax. “It is that bad?”

“Indeed,” she says with a tiny, playful smile. He looks into her eyes then, for perhaps the first time in weeks. It never fails to entrance her.

He opens the jar and then frowns. “I fear that I may need some assistance. I cannot see – “

“Oh,” she stutters because of course they didn’t have any mirrors in the middle of the desert. “Of course, I can help.”

Evelyn takes the jar back and scoops out a sizable amount of gel with her fingers. She awkwardly adjusts herself on the large slab of granite until she sits behind him, perched on her knees so she can see the top of his head. The burn truly was terrible, already blistering and beginning to peel. She winced and sucked in a quick breath in sympathy as she tentatively began to smooth her fingers against his bald head.

Solas does not move or even appear to breathe as she gently covers the entirety of the burn with the cooling aloe. She hesitates when her fingers reach his ears, knowing from experience just how sensitive and personal that area could be for an elf. The pads of her fingers reach for another scoop of gel before she very lightly runs them over the tips of his ear and down to the shell.

He does make a sound then, letting out the smallest sigh as he unconsciously relaxes into her arms. Her heartbeat thrums violently in her chest and down to her shaking fingers and yet she cannot make herself _stop_. This was exactly the opposite of what she had intended by coming to speak with him. She was here to offer a friendly remedy for a sunburn, not continue to toy with his emotions.

The mere idea that she was leading him on gave her pause. She needed to speak to him, properly this time. “Solas,” Evelyn says, almost like a plea, and immediately his back straightens away from her. She removes her hands and closes the lid to the jar. He turns to look at her then, his knee tucked to the side to face her.

“Evelyn,” he says her name quietly, an unspoken question on his lips. She hates just how much she loves the sound of her name on his tongue.

“I must speak plainly with you,” she begins, and he nods encouragingly. “The kiss in the Fade, it was ill-considered. I am not… whole, Solas. I cannot deny that I have grown to care for you considerably, but it is not fair to you. My heart still longs for another and I am not over Mah – _his_ passing. I will always love him. I do not think it wise to continue… whatever this is.”

Now that her feelings are laid bare, she suddenly feels naked under his scrutiny. The chill of the desert night makes her shiver as his eyes flicker back and forth between her own and the fire. He does not say anything for a very long moment. Embarrassment floods her being and yet she cannot take back her words. They were true. She loved Mal, loved him with all of her heart. If he miraculously ever were to come back to her, she would take him, all of him in less than a heartbeat. There would be no hesitation. She could never deny him, her husband, her love.

Yet such thoughts were dangerous and too painful to bear. He was never coming back. Mal was dead and had been for an entire year. She had endured and he would not want her to suffer so. It’s ridiculous the way she can almost hear him saying it, “ _Creators, don’t be like that! I’ll be fine, my heart. You will be too_.”

And yet she cannot deny the feelings that she has for Solas. It’s almost impossible to reconcile.

“I understand,” he finally speaks, quietly so the others do not hear. “I would never want to replace your husband. It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable, Evelyn. I shall respect your wishes and give you your space.”  

Evelyn nods, acknowledging his thoughts before ducking her head in mortification. She knows this is right, it is the healthy thing to do to sever whatever _this_ even was before it could begin. Yet her heart feels the sting of it keenly. She does not want him to give her space. Not at all.

“Thank you,” she says softly, looking down at the rock they sit upon. He moves to stand and nods solemnly at her. Before he turns to walk away, she cannot help but reach for his wrist and say, “I value your friendship, Solas. Please can we remain as we were before?”

She drops his wrist, silently cursing herself for her pleas. What a lovesick, selfish fool she was. How dare she ask more of this man? Yet his eyes hold no contempt for her. He merely offers a solid little smile and nods his head.

“ _Ma nuvenin, Lethallan_ ,” he agrees and this time she does not stop him when he walks across the camp from her and lays on his bedroll. Somehow, she feels that there is no way they truly can go back to the way things were. Her heart feels all the heavier for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, my writing is definitely not the best. If anyone has any suggestions please let me know if I fucked up. I have like no friends who know that I write fanfiction so if anyone is interested in being a beta reader I would for sure be eternally grateful!


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